Chapter II: Preface (2)

Now by all hidden spells that lie
In the deep soul of poesy--
By the stern death-song of the brave,
The last best gift that Odin gave--
And by the power that gives to me
The keys of nature’s secresy--
And by the prophet glances thrown
Into the depths of worlds unknown--
By thine own proud and royal name--
Once more the enchanted sword I claim!

It comes! the gleaming point I see--
It comes with solemn minstrelsy!
With bounding heart and rapturous eyes
I grasp the long contested prize!
Now let the broken turf-bed close
In peace above thy deep repose;
Thou canst not feel another spell--
Prince! To thy dust a long farewell!

DEATH.

Ye may twine young flowers round the sunny brow
Ye deck for the festal day,--
But mine is the shadow that waves o’er them now,
And their beauty has withered away.
Ye may gather bright gems for glory’s shrine,
Afar, from their cavern home--
Ye may gather the gems--but their pride is mine,
They will light the dark cold tomb.

The warrior’s heart beats high and proud,
I have laid my cold hand on him;
And the stately form hath before me bowed,
And the flashing eye is dim.
I have trod the banquet room alone--
And the crowded halls of mirth,
And the low deep wail of the stricken one
Went up from the festal hearth.

I have stood by the pillared domes of old,
And breathed on each classic shrine--
And desolation gray and cold
Now marks the ruins mine.
I have met young Genius, and breathed on the brow
That bore his mystic trace--
And the cheek where passion was wont to glow
Is wrapt in my dark embrace.

They tell of a land where no blight can fall,
Where my ruthless reign is o’er--
Where the ghastly shroud, and the shadowy pall
Shall wither the soul no more.
They say there’s a home in yon blue sphere,
A region of life divine:
But I reck not--since all that is lovely here,
The beauty of earth--is mine.

ENTHUSIASM.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

As erst the eagle of the sky
Bore Ganymede to courts of Jove,
Yearning for earth, the unwilling boy
Against the bird imperial strove;
He, while more closely in their clasp
The panting prize his talons grasp,
Soared upward to the immortals’ seat;
And heedless of the suppliant’s prayer,
His captive cast, all trembling, there,
Before the Thunderer’s feet.

Thus, when my earth-bound soul to claim,
Oh eagle conqueror! stoop’st thou near,
The rushing of thy wings of flame
My bosom thrills with holy fear.
I struggle vainly ’gainst thy might--
Shrink trembling from the presence bright
That well might blast a heart like mine;
As fire that heaven’s winged bolt allumes,
Unquenched, unquenchable, consumes
The votive pyre, the fane, the shrine!

But to the daring flight of thought
Sense would oppose its bonds in vain;
Beneath the god to frenzy wrought,
My soul leaps up, and spurns the chain.
The lightning courses through my veins,
The fire that in my being reigns,
Even while I strive, more fiercely glows;
The lava of o’erflowing soul
In waves of melody doth roll,
My breast consuming while it flows.

Lo, muse! thy victim here behold!
No more the brow inspired is mine,
No more the glance so rapt and bold,
That once shot forth a ray divine!
Worn with the heart-devouring strife,
A wretched residue of life
Scarce to my wearied youth is left;
With wan exhaustion stamped, my face
Bears but the scathing thunder’s trace,
Whose bolt this frame of vigor reft.

Happy the bard insensible!
Unbathed with burning tears his lyre;
His fancy, ruled by peaceful will,
Feels not the touch of passion’s fire.
For him, a clear and grateful tide,
The gathered streams of pleasure glide
In measured and harmonious flow:
His Icarus, that ne’er essayed
To soar in Heaven, with wing betrayed,
No fall from heaven can know.

But we must burn, who proudly claim
To kindle generous souls;--must steal
From jealous heaven its triple flame:
To paint all things--all things must feel!
A focus of concentrate light,
The heart from all in nature bright
Must gather all the rays;--
Why on our life should censure fall?
The torch that fires with envy all
Was kindled first at passion’s blaze.

No--never from a tranquil breast
Such heavenly raptures found their way;
The concord wild, the sweet unrest,
Wherewith a subject world we sway.
The God that ruled o’er Homer’s birth,
When, his dread darts to launch on earth,
From Eryx’ radiant height he came,
To hell’s infernal kingdoms strode,
And dipped his weapons in the flood,
In Stygian waves of boiling flame.

Thou from the height of song descend,
Who ’dst blush for transports idly given;
The heroic lute alone can blend
The thrilling harmonies of heaven!
The heart of Genius, proud and bold,
Is like the marble which of old
Breathed its wild dirge o’er Memnon’s tomb;
To give the statue voice and might,
From the pure day-god’s eye of light
One beam must pierce the gloom.

Thou wouldst that rousing in my breast
The fires that ’neath their ashes lie,
I barter now my spirit’s rest
For tones that vanish with a sigh.
Ah! glory is a shadow’s dream!
Too brief even to its votaries seem
The fleeting days its charms that prove!
Thou wouldst that in the mocking strife
I waste my last frail breath of life--
I would that breath preserve--to love!

THE DYING POET.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

Broken, while mantling yet, my cup of life;
The breath in sighs retained and feeble strife
No grief of mourning friends can now delay;
The hollow bell from yonder giant tower
Tolls out my doom!--Pass we the waning hour
In tears or song away?

In song--my fingers clasp the lyre in death--
My spirit, swanlike, with departing breath
To worlds unseen lifts her melodious cry:--
How should the soul, of music wrought above,
Save in the strains of harmony and love,
Pour forth her farewell sigh?

The lyre in breaking yields its loftiest sound;
The dying lamp, ere quenched in gloom profound,
Shoots forth a beam that shames its vanished rays;
Heavenward the swan’s expiring glance is cast--
While man alone weeps for his pleasures past,
And counts his closing days.

What is the worth of time that we deplore?
A sun--a sun--an hour--and yet an hour--
And each the last resembling in its flight!
One brings the joys another bears away;
Labor--grief--rest--a vision! Such the day!
Then comes the unconscious night.

Let him lament, who pressed with eager fears,
Clings like the ivy, to the wreck of years;
Whose hope can hail no future, holier morn:--
I, who have held in earth nor root nor seed,
Pass without effort, like the fragile weed
On evening breezes borne.

Like is the poet to the birds of flight
Which shun the strand that ocean crests with white,
Nor seek mid forest shades their brief repose;
Poised on the wave, they pass the far-off shore
With heedless warblings--and the world no more
Than their wild voices, knows.

No master’s hand along the sounding wires
Guided mine own, nor taught my soul its fires;
No lessons give what heaven alone doth send:
The stream learns not from its deep source to sing--
Eagles--to cleave the skies with soaring wing--
The bee--its sweets to blend.

The bell resounding from its dome on high,
In glad or mournful anthem to the sky
Peals for the rites of marriage or the grave;
My being too, e’en like that fire-wrought bell,
To every passion’s touch, in mighty swell,
A solemn answer gave.

’Tis thus at night the wild harp, far and faint,
Blending with wailing streams its airy plaint,
Pours to the wind spontaneous melodies:
The charmed traveller stays his step to hear,
And thrilled with wonder, marvels whence so near
The sounds celestial rise.

Full oft my chords were steeped in tears and rue;
For the soul’s flower are tears the heavenly dew--
It blooms not in the sun’s unclouded ray.
From broken cups the sparkling juice is shed,
And the crushed herb, beneath our reckless tread,
Spreads perfume on our way.

God wrought my spirit of the subtle fire;
All she approached her being did inspire.
Ah, fatal gift! with love o’erfraught, I die.
All I have touched resolves in dust away--
So on the wasted heath the lightning’s ray
Sinks, its own ruins nigh.

Time? ’tis no more.--Fame?--What is to the sage
This echo vain from age transferred to age?
This name--the toy of centuries yet to dawn?
Ye who would promise the far future’s reign,
Hear--hear my harp’s last utterings.--’Tis in vain!
With the gale’s sweep they’re gone!

Ah! yield to craving death a hope more meet!
Say, shall a sound so perishing and fleet
Waft round a tomb the eternal voice of praise?
Is this renown--a dying mortal’s sigh?
And you who said his glory ne’er could die--
Know you your term of days?

Attest the gods--through life, that mighty name
My lips have uttered but in scorn and shame--
That name--the vaunt of man’s delirious pride:
Proved more--still more its emptiness I find--
And spurn it--like the parched and vapid rind
Of fruits our lips have tried.

In sterile hope of this uncertain fame
Man to the tide commits a cherished name;
From day to day wanes its receding light;
With the bright wreck Time’s billow sports--yet on
Year after year it floats--then plunges down,
Whelmed in the abyss of night.

One bark the more I launch upon the deep,
To sink or float, sport of the tempest’s sweep.
Can it avail me, if a name remain?
The swan that sails in yon imperial sky--
Asks he if yet his wings, self-poised on high,
Shadow the subject plain?

Then wherefore sing?--Ask of the minstrel bird
Wherefore all night her plaintive voice is heard
Mingled with streamlets moaning ’neath the shade!
I sang--as man impulsive drinks the air--
As breezes sigh--as rivers murmur--where
They roam the silent glade.

Love, prayer, and song to me existence gave:--
Of all the earthly good that mortals crave,
In this my farewell hour I nought regret;
Nought--save the burning sighs that soar above,
The lyre’s full ecstasy, or wordless love
Of hearts that ne’er forget.

To sweep the lyre at listening beauty’s feet--
To mark from note to note the transport sweet
Thrill her rapt bosom with responsive power;
To draw the tears of rapture from her eyes,
As morning dews are swept by zephyrs’ sighs
From the full, bending flower--

To watch her pensive glances meekly rise
In hallowed transport to the arching skies,
The seraph sounds pursuing in their flight--
Then softly bend to earth, with fondness beaming,
While from the downcast lids the soul is gleaming,
Like trembling fires at night--

To mark on her fair brow the shade of thought,
Words failing to the lips with awe o’erfraught--
And mid the silence deep at length to hear
That word which fills the seraph’s holiest strain--
The word--“I love!”--pronounced by gods and men--
This--this is worth a tear!

A tear! a vain regret--an idle breath!
My soul mounts heavenward on the wings of death.
I go--where all our loftiest wishes rise;
I go--where hope hath fixed her burning gaze--
I go--where float my lute’s high notes of praise--
Where tend my latest sighs.

Like birds that see through darkness of the tomb,
The spirit’s eye hath pierced my gathering gloom,
With prophet instinct pointing to the dead;
Toward that vast future where our thoughts aspire,
How oft, upborne to heaven on wings of fire,
My soul hath death outsped!

O’er my last dwelling grave no haughty name,
Nor raise me monuments inscribed to fame.
Are the dead jealous of their lonely dust?
Leave only at my tomb enough of space,
Where some sad wanderer near the sacred place
May kneel in humble trust.

Oft in the hush of secresy and gloom
Hath prayer gone up beside the solemn tomb,
And hope descended to the weary soul!
The foot clings less to mortal weakness there--
Heaven grows more vast--the spirit mounts its sphere
Less bowed to earth’s control.

Give to the winds, the flame, the ocean’s roar,
These strings which to my soul respond no more.
The harp of angels soon these hands shall sweep!
Soon, thrilled like them with an immortal fire,
Seraphic hosts, perchance, my ardent lyre
In ecstasy shall steep!

Soon--but the dull cold hand of death along
My chords has struck:--one farewell gush of song
Sad and receding--to the winds is given.
They break--’tis gone!--my friends, be yours the hymn!
My parting soul would rise, while earth grows dim,
In melody to heaven!

I WOULD I WERE THE LIGHT-WINGED BIRD.

I would I were the light-winged bird
That carols on the breezy air,
When summer songs of joy are heard,
And fields and skies are fair!
When verdure lives on every tree,
And beauty blooms o’er land and sea.

Then when the morn to deck her brow,
A chaplet weaves of golden light,
And sparkle on each waving bough
Her gems, like diamonds bright--
I’d spring to greet her with my song,
The gayest of the festive throng.

When silent noon usurped the sky,
I’d hide me in the forest shade,
Where leaves and blossoms, twined on high,
An arching shelter made--
While cooling streams, the earth to bless,
Came gliding from the green recess.

Of gladness wearied, I would go
To seek the lonely captive’s cell;
There, in his hours of bitterest wo,
Of peace and hope to tell,
I’d sing of freedom in his ear,
And he should smile, that song to hear.

And where the brave ship ploughed the sea,
Her stately course I’d mark on high:
The sailor, as he gazed on me,
Should deem his home was nigh--
Each voice in all that shouting band
Should bless the herald of the land.

New joys the fleeting hours would bring;
And when the summer’s feast was o’er,
I’d hie me on unwearied wing
To some far favored shore--
My vanished pleasures to renew
’Neath suns as bright, and skies as blue.

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS.

The heavens display thy glory, Lord of life!
And the clear firmament, as with a tongue
That ceaseless speaks, proclaims to earth--to man--
Thy wondrous power--the everlasting theme
From day to day, from night to night renewed.
The night is deep, and ocean sleeps in calm;
The winds are hushed, and with them hushed awhile
The storm in human breasts.--Look on the heavens!
Disturbed by fitful clouds, which recent winds
Have torn and flung in fleecy whiteness there,
I see amid the desert waste of blue,
Bright stars, which gleam with interrupted light.
Beautiful stars! yet, though careering now
Triumphant through illimitable space
With lustre unsubdued--ye fail at last!--
The time must come, when from your glorious orbs
The Eternal shall withdraw the kindling look
That feeds your living fires--and all these suns,
Extinct at once--shall perish! Thou Boötes,
Brightest of all that walk the beamy North!
Sunken and pale--thy golden car o’erturned,
Shalt set in night! and Sirius, who dost shine
In bright Orion’s train!--Ye Pleiades,--
Who on your silver path majestic rise,
Hymning your chorus to celestial ears,
Your melody must cease!--Thou, radiant Ship,
Which round and round the firmament, on high
Hung like a sea, from immemorial time
Hast sailed,--shalt sink, in waves of darkness whelmed.
And thou, lone watcher of the ancient Pole,--
Who through unnumbered years hast held unmoved
Thy seat in Heaven, and marked the birth and death
Of kindred worlds--shalt quit thy station too!
The seaman’s guide no more! All fade away!
And I, who gaze upon your glories now,
Desponding and afar, must I too share
The darkness of your ruin?--No--these powers
Though shrouded, were not given to fail with yours!
They live--to vaster and to loftier life
For ever swelling--when your orbs shall pass
Unheeded to the chaos whence they sprung.

SONG OF THE JEWISH EXILES.

“Observing many Jews walking about the place, and reposing along the
brook Kedron in a pensive mood, the pathetic language of the Psalmist
recurred to me as expressing the subject of their meditations;--‘By
the rivers we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion.’ On
frequently inquiring the motive that prompted them in attempting to go
to Jerusalem, the answer was--‘To die in the land of our fathers.’”

_Wilson’s Travels._

We wander where the cedars grow,
And by the mountain side--
And think with shame and sorrow now
O’er Judah’s days of pride.
Ere He who loved this holy place
Left desolate his chosen race.

In Kedron’s vale the clustering vine
Still sheds its stores of gold--
On Carmel’s top the sun-beams shine
As in the days of old.
The palm that waves beside the sea
Is fresh--and green the olive tree.

But ah! no day of hope returns
For Salem’s blighted throne;
Our desolated Zion mourns
Her glorious beauty gone.
Her withered land with carnage stained--
Her fallen towers--and dust profaned.

Mute is the harp whose lofty tone
Made glad this sacred spot--
Its broken chords are crushed and gone,
Its melodies forgot.--
And Zion’s place of holy birth
Hath not a vestige left on earth.

Yet better thus--than it should be
In pristine beauty still,
The theme of pagan mockery,
The sport of pagan will.
Better a wreck without a name,
Than left a monument of shame.

From earth’s remotest lands we come
By the lone wilderness,
To look upon our fathers’ home,
Our fathers’ soil to press.
And worn with exiles’ misery,
Beside our fathers’ graves to die.

THE DRUIDS’ HYMN.

“The Druids, till their religion had been interlarded with that of
other nations, had neither images nor temples. They had generally
those circles and altars, at which they performed their religious
ceremonies, situated near the deep murmur of some stream, within the
gloom of groves, or under the shade of some venerable oak.”

_Smith’s Gallic Antiquities._

Not in the pomp of temples made with hands,
Nor where in pride the sculptured marble stands--
Where pillared aisles their labored lines display,
And painted casements mock the imprisoned day,
Or the broad column swells--we worship Thee,
Spirit Almighty!--but in this vast shrine,
Where nature bids her elder glories shine,
Fit emblems of thine own eternity.
These woods, which through the lapse of time have given
Their spreading branches to the light of heaven--
This stream that bears its flowery stores along,
And tells thy wisdom in its murmured song--
Yon placid lake, in whose transparent breast
Each bending shrub’s green image is at rest,
Whose face anon the rippling breezes swell--
The towering rocks which crown that shadowy dell--
All speak thy presence. Thine immensity,
That fills this breathing earth--the land--the sea--
Moves in the winds, when soft as now and warm,
Or bearing on their wings the hurrying storm--
Shines in the glorious sun--the deep blue sky--
And glows in yonder worlds that roll on high--
Dwells also here--the lightest leaf that moves,
Stirs with thy breath--Thy hand has raised these groves,
And wreathed their foliage--and sent sportive light
To sparkle in their blossoms, and make bright
The leaping fount. Each tender flower that waves
Aloft its head--each drop of spray that laves
The smiling ground, and drinks the sun’s warm rays,
An offering sends of fragrance and of praise
To Thee, the source of every creature’s good:
Then, in this calm and holy solitude,
Let ours, ascending, mix with Nature’s voice--
Let us, with sun, and wood, and stream rejoice--
Join in the chant of universal love
That swells from all below and all above,
To hymn the Uncreate, Invisible,
In whom all power, and life, and glory dwell.

THE BLIND HARPER.

Rest thee--companion of my toilsome way--
And thou, my gentle guide. Beside the fount
That with its plashing coolness bathes my hand,
And sends its dewy moisture to my brow,
We’ll sit--till the fresh breath of evening comes
To cool the burning air;--for I am faint
Beneath the burden of the summer’s day--
And feel my limbs bowed down with weariness.
And thy step too, my boy, has been less light,
Thy tone less buoyant, than when morning’s flowers
Were fresh beneath thy feet.--How faintly now
Rustles the drooping foliage--as the wind
Comes like the breath of infancy, when hushed
In quiet slumber on the mother’s breast.
How beautiful must be this visible world
To those whose sense can drink the glorious light
Shed over nature’s face! for whom the day,
Fresh dawning, brings in newer loveliness--
The rich and treasured beauties which the earth
Pours forth in glad profusion!--For my soul,
A world of unpierced darkness lies before;
The past, a waste where memory cannot pluck
One solitary blossom. Closed to me
Are nature’s stores of joy. In vain the sun
Sheds blessings down from his ambrosial throne
Upon a thousand charms--the lone old man
Beholds them not. The voice of birds in spring,
The whispered melody of murmuring streams,
The hum of insects, and the myriad tones
Of love and life, that on the liberal air,
Fraught with the perfumes of the breezy flowers,
Float like the breathings of some heavenly dream--
Are tuneless music to a weary heart.
And thou, my harp--last solace! though thy notes
Are dear to him who wakes them--though the wild,
Sad melody thou utterest brings back
The visions of my youth and all I loved;
Yet soon the hand that trembles o’er thee now
Shall strike thy chords no more;--withered and rent,
Like me, thou’lt lie neglected--rudely swept
By stern and wintry winds, or crushed beside
Thy master’s grave--his fitting monument.

THE MERMAID’S SONG.

My ocean home--my ocean home!
Far in the dark blue main--
When shall the wearied exile roam
Thy glassy halls again!
Where is the wave that shadows thee,
Haunt of remembered infancy!

Where the broad flag that rests below
In its gem-girdled sleep,
And the yellow fan--and the dulse’s glow,
That bloom in the sunless deep?
And the purple rocks--and the coral grove--
All dear to memory and to love.

They may talk of their heaven of azure light,
And their sphere-wrought harmony--
And the glittering gems of their burning night--
Yet what are these to me?
I hear the deep wild strains that swell
From the sea green depths of my ocean cell.

Oh, give me back my pearl-lit home,
Beneath the billowy main--
And let the wearied exile roam
Her own green halls again!
Oh, let me leave this smiling shore,
For my own shadowy caves once more.

SUSQUEHANNA.

Softly the blended light of evening rests
Upon thee, lovely stream! Thy gentle tide,
Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky,
Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind,
Majestically flows. Oh! by thy side,
Far from the tumults and the throng of men,
And the vain cares that vex poor human life,
’Twere happiness to dwell, alone with thee,
And the wide solemn grandeur of the scene.
From thy green shores, the mountains that inclose
In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain,
Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend,
Enrobed with clustering woods o’er which the smile
Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed,
Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues,
And flinging o’er the lowliest leaf and shrub
His golden livery. On the distant heights
Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar
Their burnished summits in the clear blue heaven,
Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled eye
Turns drooping from the sight.--Nature is here
Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice doth tell
In music never silent, of her power.
Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she builds
Such monuments of regal sway. These wide,
Untrodden forests eloquently speak,
Whether the breath of Summer stir their depths,
Or the hoarse moaning of November’s blast
Strip from the boughs their covering.

All the air
Is now instinct with life. The merry hum
Of the returning bee, and the blithe song
Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude,
Swell upward--and the play of dashing streams
From the green mountain side is faintly heard.
The wild swan swims the waters’ azure breast
With graceful sweep, or startled, soars away,
Cleaving with mounting wing the clear bright air.

Oh! in the boasted lands beyond the deep,
Where Beauty hath a birth-right--where each mound
And mouldering ruin tells of ages past--
And every breeze, as with a spirit’s tone,
Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back,
Waking the soul to lofty memories,
Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill
The heart with peace more pure?--Nor yet art thou,
Proud stream! without thy records--graven deep
On yon eternal hills, which shall endure
Long as their summits breast the win’try storm,
Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been
The chroniclers of centuries gone by:
Of a strange race, who trod perchance their sides,
Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth
Which now they shade. Here onward swept thy waves,
When tones now silent mingled with their sound,
And the wide shore was vocal with the song
Of hunter chief, or lover’s gentle strain.
Those passed away--forgotten as they passed;
But holier recollections dwell with thee:
Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud
And solemn monuments. The mighty dust
Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen,
Hath mingled with the soil, and hallowed it.
Thy waters in their brilliant path have seen
The desperate strife that won a rescued world--
The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts,
And hymned their requiem.

Far beyond this vale
That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers,
Gay village spires ascend--and the glad voice
Of industry is heard.--So in the lapse
Of future years these ancient woods shall bow
Beneath the levelling axe--and Man’s abodes
Displace their sylvan honors. They will pass
In turn away;--yet heedless of all change,
Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on,
Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee
To mark the wrecks of time, and read their doom.

ROMANCE.

FROM THE FRENCH.

How thrillingly remembrance clings,
My native France, to thee!
Oh, sister! life had joyous wings,
When by the deep-blue sea,
In the free light of childhood’s day,
We sported childhood’s hours away.

And thou rememb’rest too, when near
The fire side’s glimmering light,
Our mother chained the listening ear
With tales that charmed the night;
And smoothed our glossy locks, and prest
Us fondly to her matron breast.

And the old tower, where thou and I
Together knelt to pray;
Where matin voices swelled on high
To hail the coming day;
And vesper hymn, of praise and prayer,
Rose sweetly on the Summer air.

And the blue tranquil lake, with bank
Rich with the gifts of Spring--
Whose transient bubbles rose and sank,
Touched by the swallow’s wing;
When the sun swept across the deep
In glory to his ocean sleep.

And she--the loved, the lost, the friend
Of youth’s unclouded years--
Alas! remembrances but tend
To dim the past with tears:
Yet still my latest sigh shall be
Sacred, my native land! to thee!

THE DEATH OF ST. LOUIS.

St. Louis of France, who embarked with an army for Palestine in 1270, landing at Tunis, was besieged by the inhabitants in the town of Carthage, and with great numbers of his people, fell a victim to the plague. In his dying moments he caused himself to be removed from his couch, and placed upon ashes; and in that situation expired.

The sun had well nigh set; on Afric’s strand
The billows, tipped with silver, kissed the sand,
As if they leaped rejoicing in the light
Whose mellowing radiance ushered in the night.
From cloudless skies the purple lustre fell
O’er palmy plain, and hill, and shaded dell;
While o’er the peopled city towering near,
The rays gleamed back from shield and burnished spear,
And the faint breezes many a banner stirred,
And many a waving plume. Yet was there heard
From those still streets no voice, nor martial clang
Of trumpet’s thrilling note; nor wildly rang
The war-steed’s tramp; nor burst the warrior’s song
Forth in stern gladness from that ghastly throng.
Silence unbroken, deep as of the dead,
Brooded around; for Pestilence had spread
Her withering wings, and quenched the soldier’s pride,
And poisoned in each breast its bounding tide.
Helpless in life’s last throb the champion lay,
In his full manhood--he who in the day
Of strength and youth had buckled on his heel
The knightly spur, and grasped the avenging steel
For France and glory; he, whose matchless might
O’erwhelmed all foes; whose name, if heard in fight,
Back from each front could make the life-blood start,
And turn to coward’s every warrior’s heart.
Moveless he lay--unmarked and powerless now,
With none to wipe the death sweat from his brow:
His hand was on his blade--his eager eye
Glanced feebly upward to the glowing sky,
As if to curse the fierce and searching air
That scorched his brain and drank the life-blood there.
Youth too was near; the fearless step, and glow
Of kindling pride all changed and vanished now:
And woman, with her deep devoted love
That smiles at change--all mortal fear above;
Pale, wasted, but intent alone to give
Strength to the weak, and bid the sufferer live.
Oh! different far their aspect and the scene
From what its gorgeous pomp so late had been,
When girded in their might that glorious band
Had passed in triumph from their native land,
Honored and hailed by noble and by slave,
To reap the promised guerdon of the brave.
With eager rapture in that kindling hour
The gallant knight forsook his lady’s bower,
Knelt in farewell, her hand with fervor pressed
That bound the sacred symbol on his breast,
And rushed to follow in the path of fame
His royal chief. From breast to breast the flame
Of holy ardor spread--their cause was blest
By priest and saint; their swords should win the rest!
France poured her bravest forth to swell the band,
Beauty with tearful eyes and waving hand
Watched their departure; while the trumpet’s peal
From rank to rank was heard--the clash of steel
The martial clangour answered--and the cry
Echoed by joyous shouts, was--“France and victory!”
Led by their princely chieftain they had passed
Through ocean’s storms, nor feared the tempest’s blast;
In trusting zeal to Afric’s shores of wo
They came to seek them friends, and found a foe!
Was this the fruit of all their welcome toil,
Ignoble graves upon a foreign soil?
Had they the joys of home and love resigned,
Once all their own, such guerdon here to find?
Thus must they perish--with besieging bands
Of foes without the gates, while round them stands
Yon frowning wall as if its massy height
Had risen to mock the vainly yearning sight;
And even the strength their sinking frames deny
To seek the field where they might bravely die?
And where was he, at whose beloved side
Thousands had rushed to fall? He who defied
The haughty Saracen, and came to free
The holy shrine from heathen mockery--
Their leader and their king? Alas! no more
His hand shall wield the sceptre, or before
His mailed bands, lead on in victory’s way:--
Pale, haggard, motionless, the monarch lay
Upon his couch, while mournful round him stood
A few brave friends, who would have poured their blood
To stay his ebbing life. From his damp brow
The helmet was removed--too heavy now
To press those temples; while upon his cheek
The life-blood lingered in one last faint streak,
And the dim haze of death crept slowly o’er
The eye whose glances could command no more.
Around, disease’s blighting touches told
His fearful ravages on features bold
And noble in their paleness; no face there
Wore not the brand of suffering and despair;
Yet all stood silent, for a heavier blow
Made each in this forget his selfish wo:
Tears fell unchecked and fast;--then while the hue
Of hastening death grew deeper, wide they threw
The casement; on his couch the day beam played--
The admitted light dispelled the solemn shade:
O’er his wan face the broad pale radiance streamed,
And sadder still that place of mourning seemed.
He turned and gazed. The sea-breeze fresh and light
Blew on his cheek, while full before his sight,
In distance softened, rolled the heaving sea;
Its billows flashed as brightly, and as free
Danced in the light, as when his fleet had pressed,
Broad and triumphant, ocean’s willing breast.
His ships were on the shore--dismantled, tost
By every wave that lashed the sandy coast;
Vain wrecks of hope and triumph, there they lay!
Oh! never mortal tongue may dare to say
What thoughts of anguish racked the monarch’s breast.
“Accursed of God!” he cried--“and thus unblest,
’Tis not for me in kingly state to die!
It may be that my late humility
Will yet avert from those who linger here
The wrath of heaven.--Prepare the sinner’s bier!”
Striving to change his desperate will in vain,
Weeping, they bear him to his bed of pain--
The last he e’er shall press! “Thus, thus,” he cried--
“In shame I pay the penalty of pride!
Thus with repentance, and with humble trust
In Him who smites, is dust consigned to dust!
Giver of deathless life! GOD! who dost spare
The guilty even in vengeance--hear my prayer!
Accept my offered penance! Be thy dread
Just chastisement poured only on my head!
And save my people!”--As these accents passed
From his pale lips, a flush, the deepest, last,
Crimsoned his dying face: a sudden gleam
Of martyr triumph kindled with its beam
His closing eyes--and e’re its lustre fled,
The self-devoted rested with the dead.

COMPLAINT OF HARALD.

IMITATED FROM AN ICELANDIC SONG.

My gallant ship a rich freight bore
Around Sicilia’s tideless shore;
Laden with gold and warriors brave
With rapid keel she ploughed the wave;
We woo’d the fresh’ning breeze in vain--
I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

Strong in the pride of youthful might,
Stern Drontheim’s troops I quelled in fight;
Dire was the conflict, ’mid the throng,
While pealed the war shouts loud and long:
I slew their chieftain;--still in vain
I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

I’ve stemmed the troublous ocean’s tide,
And met the tempest in its pride;
When darkly scowled the foaming deep,
My bark has cleft the billows’ sweep.
Full dangerous were my toils and vain;
I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

With graceful arm I rein the steed,
Unmatched in courage as in speed
I skim the ice; and dextrous wield
The dripping oar, and lance and shield.
I forge the weapon; yet in vain
I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

I’m skilled to lead the hunter’s chase,
Each Runic character I trace;
I bear the gift of godlike fire,
To wake the glories of the lyre.
Its magic chords but speak in vain;
I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

Stern Norway’s highlands claim my birth;
My arms have conquered Southern earth.
In desert wilds my banners play,
And the wide seas confess my sway.
A reckless victor still in vain
I mourn a Russian maid’s disdain!

ECHO.

Echo was once a love-sick maid,
They say:--The tale is no deceiver!
Howe’er a woman’s form might fade,
Her voice would be the last to leave her!

EPIGRAM.

FROM SAVERIO BETTINELLI.

Before the shrine Aurelia pours her prayer--
“Oh, let my suffering consort prove thy care!”
The anxious spouse returned--the husband died:
“Good saint! I did not ask so much!” she cried.

THE PICTURED ROCKS.[14]

Earth hath her wondrous scenes--but few like this.
Lo! how yon cliffs do spurn the swelling deep,
Lifting their huge bare walls to middle heaven,
As if they sought to reach it! On their front,
Vast and unbroken, hangs no jutting crag
Which beetling might arrest the weary eye,
Or give a shelter to the shrieking bird
That sought a resting place. The short gray moss
Grows in their crevices--and here and there
Some stunted shrub hangs midway from the top,
Stretching its blighted branches in the air,
Or scattering withered leaves. Their summits shoot
Far upward to the sky--and sometimes there
The eagle on his heavenward path will pause
To rest his wearied wing, and gaze below
Into the broad white lake, where snowy sails
Swell in the summer breeze. But mortal foot
Hath never climbed those heights. At their deep base
The everlasting surge hath worn itself
A pathway in the solid rock; and there,
Far in those caverned chambers, where the warm
Sweet sun-light enters not, is heard the war
Of hidden waves, imprisoned tempests--bursting
Anon like thunder, then with low deep moan
Falling upon the ear--the mournful wail,
As Indian legends say, of spirits accurst.

There is a tale that once was current here,
Which lent a wild and fearful interest
To these stern rocks.--While yet the vales beyond
Lay trackless by intruding stranger’s step,
While the blithe savage in his untamed pride
Roved the free woods, and dreamed not of the day
When pale invaders should profane his home--
An Indian maiden bloomed--among those tribes
Renowned for loveliness. Her step was light
As the young fawn’s; her dark bright eye spoke love,
And youth, and happiness. Her fairy song
Was first to greet the morning--first at eve
Hailed with delight, when her young comrades left
Their forest huts to dance in the green glade,
Or pluck the wild flowers on the hillock sheen.
She was beloved by rivals of her tribe,
And for a season smiled alike on both.
The one was bright and joyous as herself;
He loved to bring her flowers--to snare with her
The fish that sparkled in the silvery stream;
To range the wood or shore, and rifle thence
Some delicate feather, or some purple shell,
To please a maiden’s fancy.--But his rival
Bore a stern brow, a fierce unyielding soul.
His was the skill to wield the hunter’s bow,
Or the keen tomahawk. He trod the wood
To wring some trophy of barbarian strength;
To make its wide depths echo with the shriek
Of slaughtered foes. His name was feared and hated
Among the neighbouring tribes. The maid was proud
That one so stern and terrible as he
Should own her power--and though she loved him not,
She still would smile and listen when he told
His fierce exploits, and boasted deeds sublime.
Time passed, and she grew weary of his gloom,
And laughed to scorn his face of sullenness;
And when at dusky eve his step was heard
Approaching, she would quit her cottage home
To shun his sight;--and seek the thicket’s shade
To meet her gentler lover.
One bright sun-set
She waited for his coming. Hours passed on,
And the gray twilight faded from the hills,
And from the sheltered valley. Still he came not.
She turned to seek her home--when at her side
A figure stood, panting with breathless haste.
’Twas he, the dark browed youth. His eye was wild,
Blood on his forehead--and his reeking weapon
Of the same crimson hue. She shrunk aghast,
For her fears told what blood had dyed that blade.
With unresisted might he bore her thence,
Fleet as the eagle, to the dusky shore.
Ere she had power to shriek--to strive--to pray--
She was upon the wide and silent waters
Alone with him. The night was gathering fast,
And as their bark shot onward, o’er them rose
Those massive rocks, shadowy and stern as now--
On whose bleak sides the winds swept tremulously,
And the dark wave broke on the stormy barrier
Foaming and furious. As they neared the cliff,
The sky was black with clouds--and hopelessly
The maiden struggled with her fearful foe.
They touched the frowning rock.--He rose to moor
His vessel to its side. A blasted bough,
Sole remnant of the cedar’s giant pride,
He caught--it fell--the billow urged them on,
And high above the rushing waters’ moan
Sounded her shriek--as o’er the dashing waves
They entered that wild chasm.
They were seen
No more; nor when the sunny morn looked forth,
Was trace e’er found of that ill-fated pair,
The maiden and the murderer. Some have said
That both soon perished in the cavern’s depths--
Others, that still at midnight may be seen
That bark with its dread tenants, gliding slow
O’er the hushed wave! Yet--false or sooth the tale--
No wandering peasant now at twilight’s hour,
When silence hallows the pure lake’s repose,
Or when the tempest with his wings of darkness
Broods o’er the deep--will pass that fearful spot.

SUNSET.

The sun sinks broadly in the west;
And fainter as his radiance glows,
Scarce heeded falls o’er nature’s breast
The languor of a soft repose.
Each breeze is hushed--each leaf is still--
The wild bird pours his song no more;
And gliding round yon graceful hill,
The meek stream laves the silent shore.

Oh--vain as fair--thou fleeting light!
Who now may in thy charms confide?
So shine earth’s pageants, false and bright,
And pass like sails on ocean’s tide.
In swift succession onward go
To live and fail--day after day;
Thus human joys deceitful glow,
And fade like waning light away.

I’ve wandered oft amid these bowers,
And heard sweet notes from every bough;
And quaffed their fragrance from the flowers,
Where all is sad and silent now.
But these in ruddy morning’s smile
Shall live and bloom as bright again;--
I, constant in my grief the while,
In gloom unchanged alone remain.

TO THE LANCE-FLY.

Forth with the breezy sweep
Of spirit wings upon thy path of light,
Thou creature of the sunbeam! upward keep
Thine earth-defying flight!

The glowing west is still;
In hallowed slumber sinks the restless sea;
And heaven’s own tints have wrought o’er tree and hill
A purpling canopy.

Go--bathe thy gaudy wing
In freshened azure from the deepening sky--
In the rich gold yon parting sunbeams fling,
Ere yet their glories die.

The boundless air is thine,
The gorgeous radiance of declining day;
Those painted clouds their living hues entwine
To deck thy heavenward way.

Soar on! my fancies too
Would quit awhile the fading beauties here,
To roam with thee that waste of boundless blue!
And view yon heaven more near.

Lost--in the distant haze,
Ere my bewildered thoughts for flight were free!
Farewell! in vain upon the void I gaze,--
I cannot soar like thee!

THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

Thus Jove to men from his eternal heaven
O’er earth new formed: “Your’s, mortals, is the prize;
To you in endless heritage ’tis given;
Hence,--and divide the bounty of the skies!”

And, lo! each mortal to his portion sped,
Old men and eager youth; none idle stood:
The husbandman seized on the fruitful mead,--
The stately huntsman chose the sounding wood;

The merchant treasured up his various stores,
The priest consoled him with Falernian wine;
The monarch placed his bar on streams and shores,
And proudly cried,--“The tithe of all is mine!”

Listless and late, when the partition vast
Had long been made, from far the poet came;
But ah! the lots of fate already cast,--
No part remained to meet the wanderer’s claim.

“Alas, alas! I, of the sons of earth
Alone forgot!--thy faithful and thine own!”
Then broke the flood of wild complainings forth,
As rushed the suppliant to the Thunderer’s throne.

“If idly thus amid the land of dreams
Thou roam’st,” the God returned, “upbraid not me!
Where wert thou when yon world, too small, it seems,
Was portioned out?” Replied the bard,--“With thee!

“Mine eyes entranced hung on thy visage bright,
My ears drank harmonies of heavenly birth;
And oh forgive! if, drunken with thy light,
My soul forgot she e’er belonged to earth!”

The Thunderer smiled: “Earth is no longer mine,--
To others given her fruits, her woods, her sea;
Yet, wanderer, this my heaven of light divine,
Come when thou wilt, is open hence to thee!”

IN YONDER LAKE OF SILVER SHEEN.

In yonder lake of silver sheen,
A heaven of glory shines;
There sunset’s glancing beams are seen--
There the pale moon reclines.

Thus should the soul--a waveless sea,
From which earth’s cares are driven,
From passion’s ruffling tempest free--
Reflect the light of heaven.

THE SWALLOWS.

FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.

Captive on Afric’s barren shore,
And bending ’neath the Moorish chain,
A warrior cried--“I see once more
The birds that fly from winter’s reign.
Swallows! which Hope with welcomed glance
Hath followed o’er the burning sea,
Ye left my native sunny France--
What speak ye of that land to me?

Bring me, I pray--an exile sad--
Some token of that valley bright,
Where in my sheltered childhood glad,
The future was a dream of light.
Beside the gentle stream, where swell
Its waves beneath the lilac tree,
Ye saw the cot I love so well--
And speak ye of that home to me?

Perhaps your eyes beheld the day
Beneath the roof that saw my birth;
Have mourned with one to grief a prey--
A mother by her lonely hearth.
Day after day my step she hears,
And looks the well known form to see;
Listens--then weeps more bitter tears--
Oh! speak ye of her love to me?

Is my fair sister yet a bride?
Saw ye the gay and youthful throng
That hailed, close pressing to her side,
The nuptial day with smile and song?
My comrades who for glory burned,
And sought the fight with kindred glee,
To that sweet vale have they returned?
Speak ye of all those friends to me?

Above their buried forms perchance
Strange footsteps tread the valley’s ways;
Hushed is the bridal song and dance--
My home some other lord obeys.
For me ascends no mother’s prayer,
Though here I languish to be free;--
Birds that have breathed my country’s air,
Tell ye my country’s woes to me?”

NATURE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.

How wondrous Nature’s plan appears,
In pleasures fruitful as in woes!
The world immersed in hopeless tears,
An ample meed of suffering knows.
But Beauty binds us to her feet,
And still the mantling cup is sweet.
Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
In you the earth forgets her care.

In every land destruction’s wave
O’er buried plains triumphant rode:
Alas! even now an ark may save
Some wretch who flies the advancing flood.
But see! the rainbow shines above,
And toward them comes the peaceful dove--
Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
In you the earth forgets her care.

What means this field of burning death?
Proud Etna heaves, by fury riven,
And seems to hurl from depths beneath,
Hell’s weapons toward the kindling heaven.
Soon sink the flames below the plain--
The shaken world grows calm again.
Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
In you the earth forgets her care.

New griefs upon their path have sped--
The plague unfolds his wings of night,
Whose influence o’er the victim shed
Arrests in death his feeble flight.
Lo! health returns! serene the sky--
The doomed one feels a friend is nigh.
Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
The earth in you forgets her care.

War fills the cup of pain once more--
We meet the challenge monarchs gave;
The earth that drank the fathers’ gore
Has given the reckless sons a grave.
But tyrants weary of the steel,
And mourn the wounds they yet may heal.
Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
In you the earth forgets her care.

No more at Nature’s ills we’ll frown,
But welcome chant for smiling spring;
With roses from her wreath we crown
Our glowing temples while we sing.
Heedless of pallid slavery’s check,
Amid a crumbling empire’s wreck--
Flow, generous wine--and smile, ye fair!
In you the earth forgets her care.

LINES.

I live the thrall of visions! in each dream
That comes my soul in fancy’s hues to steep,
The illusion bright reality I deem,
Smile in its joys--in its mock sorrows weep.
When comes the waking hour of thought, to give
My spirit back to reason, and dispel
The phantoms frail its folly could believe?
Ah! not in poesy alone doth dwell
That charm fantastic! but whate’er may seem
Truth in this being vain--or hope or rest,
Is falsehood all--life is a fevered dream!
A pageant wild, where none are truly blest.

FRAGMENT FROM “ILDEGONDA.”

Serene the heavens--while in the deep blue sky
The moon rode forth, and poured her silvery light,
Within the turret’s shadow wandering nigh,
An armed warrior met the maiden’s sight.
No voice was heard; nor breeze’s whispered sigh,
To break the brooding quiet of the night,
Save, ever and anon, the warning sound
Of sentry pacing on his guarded round.

Then rose the song.--“Of pilgrimage the sign,
The red cross, bound upon her snowy breast,
Her regal halls Fiorina did resign
To follow him her maiden love had blest;
And side by side in holy Palestine,
Their arms oft bowed the Moslem’s haughty crest.
They fell together--bravest of the brave,
And found in that bright land a common grave.

“’Twas Autumn--and the morning like a bride--
The last for her!--came forth in fair array;
‘My plighted love!’ her faithful Sveno cried--
‘Seek not with me--seek not the fight to-day!
Fierce slaughter waits to roll his crimson tide--
Oh, save thyself! nor tempt the dangerous fray!’
She listened not;--they fell among the brave,
And found in that bright land a common grave.

“Their corpses pale were found upon the plain
Where the stern conflict deadliest had been:
In mute embrace the undivided twain
With love on each dead feature stamped, were seen.
Their spirits blest repose from earthly pain
In God’s own peace, ineffable, serene.
Their bodies--where they fell among the brave,
Have found in that bright land a common grave.”

He ceased; but ceased not yet his voice’s tone
That broke so late the silence deep and dread:
From those high walls, so frowning, vast, and lone,
Back the sad notes in echoed murmurs sped.
The far-off fields heard too the solemn moan,
Where o’er the herbage night her dews had shed,
More faint and faint--till blending with the roar
Of distant flood--or winds--’tis heard no more.

A LIFE SPENT IN PURSUIT OF GLORY.

FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.

Man’s new-born life is like the crystal rill,
Nameless and lowly issuing from the rock;
While in the clear deep bed by nature scooped
As in a cradle noiseless, calm, it sleeps,
Flowers crown its bank with perfume, and serene
The blue of heaven descends upon its breast:--
But from the hill’s close arms escaped, when spread
Its waves o’er neighbouring plains--with river slime
How swell its billows, and with bloated bulk
Grow pale and putrid! From its shores recede
The wonted shade, and but the naked rock
Receives its fugitive waves. Cleaving new paths,
The graceful windings of its parent vale
It scorns to follow--but ’neath arches deep,
Rolling with haughty port, there gains a name
As sounding as its surge. Still onward rushing
With bounds impetuous; bearing in its path
The ships, the tumult, and the mire of cities!
Each stream that swells its course another change--
Till swoln with waters various and corrupt,
Troubled though great, its being vain resigning,
In the sea’s breast it pours its pride and slime!

THE WISH.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Oh! that in some far solitude,
Where earthly cares might ne’er intrude,
From man’s vain pomp and friendship free,
My lot of joy were fixed with thee!
Where thou alone shouldst prove and share
My wealth, my greatness, and my care;
Where all the heaven I sought on high
Should be the azure of thine eye;
And every flower that decks the field
In thy pure brow and cheek revealed;
Where gazing on thy face the while,
And basking in thy sunny smile,
Like some fair river’s noiseless tide
The stream of passing years should glide;
And like the clear and gushing spring,
Life’s fount still new-born raptures fling.
There, when in happiness grown old,
The fires of youthful hearts are cold,
And youthful pleasures fleet away
Before our locks of sober gray;
Should love, retired with modest grace,
To holier friendship yield his place;
And from the ashes of his fires,
Though all their brilliant light expires,
Content should bud, to gild the gloom,
And flourish in perennial bloom!

THE NORTHERN HUNTER’S SONG.

The lingering morn is come--
The long sweet morn of summer’s day!
The brooding mists are flown;
And brightly on his golden way
Comes the long absent sun.
With the mirth of light hearts, and the horn’s deep sound,
And the stirring bay of the restless hound,
Away from the hunter’s home!

Away to the forest vast!
The warm rays have shone on peaks of snow--
They have vanished beneath the gleam,
And the dark bare rocks on the mountain’s brow
Now greet the returning beam!
O’er the rushing stream from his fetters free,
O’er the blossoming heath, and the heaving sea,
A mantle of light is cast!

Hark--to the voice of song!
The thrush’s soft tones on the passing breeze
Like measured music float;--
And afar is heard, through the bending trees,
The capercali’s note.
The shepherd’s low pipe, from the distant shore,
Is blent with the hoarse waves’ mingled roar,
And summons his fleecy throng.

Roused by the sea wind’s sweep,
The eagle has flown from his cliff-built nest,
And stoops to the dashing spray
That foams on the billow’s whitened breast,
To grasp his unwary prey.
The brown bear, to drink at his founts again,
And trample the flowers on the verdant plain,
Has sprung from his wintry sleep.