Chapter X: Part II (1)

Hast thou a scene that is not spread
With records of thy glory fled?
A monument that doth not tell
The tale of liberty’s farewell?
Italia! thou art but a grave
Where flowers luxuriate o’er the brave,
And nature gives her treasures birth
O’er all that hath been great on earth.
Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled
When thou wert freedom’s favour’d child:
Though fane and tomb alike are low,
Time hath not dimm’d thy sunbeam’s glow;
And, robed in that exulting ray,
Thou seem’st to triumph o’er decay--
Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent,
In nature’s pomp magnificent!
What marvel if, when all was lost,
Still on thy bright enchanted coast,
Though many an omen warn’d him thence,
Linger’d the lord of eloquence.[114]
Still gazing on the lovely sky,
Whose radiance woo’d him--but to die?
Like him, _who_ would not linger there,
Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair?
Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell,
Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell?
Hath not thy pure and genial air
Balm for all sadness but despair?[115]
No! there are pangs whose deep-worn trace
Not all thy magic can efface!
Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn
The world and all its gifts to spurn;
Time may steal on with silent tread,
And dry the tear that mourns the dead,
May change fond love, subdue regret,
And teach e’en vengeance to forget:
But thou, Remorse! there is no charm
_Thy_ sting, avenger, to disarm!
Vain are bright suns and laughing skies
To soothe thy victim’s agonies:
The heart once made thy burning throne,
Still, while it beats, is thine alone.

In vain for Otho’s joyless eye
Smile the fair scenes of Italy,
As through her landscapes’ rich array
Th’ imperial pilgrim bends his way.
Thy form, Crescentius! on his sight
Rises when nature laughs in light,
Glides round him at the midnight hour,
Is present in his festal bower,
With awful voice and frowning mien,
By all but him unheard, unseen.
Oh! thus to shadows of the grave
Be every tyrant still a slave!

Where, through Gargano’s woody dells,
O’er bending oaks the north wind swells,[116]
A sainted hermit’s lowly tomb
Is bosom’d in umbrageous gloom,
In shades that saw him live and die
Beneath their waving canopy.
’Twas his, as legends tell, to share
The converse of immortals there;
Around that dweller of the wild
There “bright appearances” have smiled,
And angel-wings at eve have been
Gleaming the shadowy boughs between.
And oft from that secluded bower
Hath breathed, at midnight’s calmer hour,
A swell of viewless harps, a sound
Of warbled anthems pealing round.
Oh, none but voices of the sky
Might wake that thrilling harmony,
Whose tones, whose very echoes made
An Eden of the lonely shade!
Years have gone by; the hermit sleeps
Amidst Gargano’s woods and steeps;
Ivy and flowers have half o’ergrown
And veil’d his low sepulchral stone:
Yet still the spot is holy, still
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill;
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer
Aërial vesper-hymns may hear
Around those forest-precincts float,
Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote.
Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint
To that rude shrine’s departed saint,
And deem that spirits of the blest
There shed sweet influence o’er her breast.

And thither Otho now repairs,
To soothe his soul with vows and prayers;
And if for him, on holy ground,
The lost one, Peace, may yet be found,
Midst rocks and forests, by the bed
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead,
She dwells, remote from heedless eye,
With nature’s lonely majesty.

Vain, vain the search!--his troubled breast
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest:
The weary pilgrimage is o’er,
The hopes that cheer’d it are no more.
Then sinks his soul, and day by day
Youth’s buoyant energies decay.
The light of health his eye hath flown,
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone.
Joyless as one on whom is laid
Some baleful spell that bids him fade,
Extending its mysterious power
O’er every scene, o’er every hour:
E’en thus _he_ withers; and to him
Italia’s brilliant skies are dim.
He withers--in that glorious clime
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time;
And suns, that shed on all below
Their full and vivifying glow,
From him alone their power withhold,
And leave his heart in darkness cold.
Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair--
_He_ only seems to perish there.

Yet sometimes will a transient smile
Play o’er his faded cheek awhile,
When breathes his minstrel boy a strain
Of power to lull all earthly pain--
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem
Th’ ethereal music of a dream,
A spirit’s voice from worlds unknown,
Deep thrilling power in every tone!
Sweet is that lay! and yet its flow
Hath language only given to woe;
And if at times its wakening swell
Some tale of glory seems to tell,
Soon the proud notes of triumph die,
Lost in a dirge’s harmony.
Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved,
Hath deeply suffer’d, fondly loved,
Ere the sad strain could catch from thence
Such deep impassion’d eloquence!
Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy--
He is no child of hope and joy!
Though few his years, yet have they been
Such as leave traces on the mien,
And o’er the roses of our prime
Breathe other blights than those of time.

Yet seems his spirit wild and proud,
By grief unsoften’d and unbow’d.
Oh! there are sorrows which impart
A sternness foreign to the heart,
And, rushing with an earthquake’s power,
That makes a desert in an hour,
Rouse the dread passions in their course,
As tempests wake the billows’ force!--
’Tis sad, on youthful Guido’s face,
The stamp of woes like these to trace.
Oh! where can ruins awe mankind
Dark as the ruins of the mind?

His mien is lofty, but his gaze
Too well a wandering soul betrays:
His full dark eye at times is bright
With strange and momentary light,
Whose quick uncertain flashes throw
O’er his pale cheek a hectic glow:
And oft his features and his air
A shade of troubled mystery wear,
A glance of hurried wildness, fraught
With some unfathomable thought.
Whate’er that thought, still unexpress’d
Dwells the sad secret in his breast;
The pride his haughty brow reveals
All other passion well conceals--
He breathes each wounded feeling’s tone
In music’s eloquence alone;
His soul’s deep voice is only pour’d
Through his full song and swelling chord.

He seeks no friend, but shuns the train
Of courtiers with a proud disdain;
And, save when Otho bids his lay
Its half unearthly power essay
In hall or bower the heart to thrill,
His haunts are wild and lonely still.
Far distant from the heedless throng,
He roves old Tiber’s banks along,
Where Empire’s desolate remains
Lie scatter’d o’er the silent plains;
Or, lingering midst each ruin’d shrine
That strews the desert Palatine,
With mournful yet commanding mien,
Like the sad genius of the scene,
Entranced in awful thought appears
To commune with departed years.
Or at the dead of night, when Rome
Seems of heroic shades the home;
When Tiber’s murmuring voice recalls
The mighty to their ancient halls;
When hush’d is every meaner sound,
And the deep moonlight-calm around
Leaves to the solemn scene alone
The majesty of ages flown--
A pilgrim to each hero’s tomb,
He wanders through the sacred gloom;
And midst those dwellings of decay
At times will breathe so sad a lay,
So wild a grandeur in each tone,
’Tis like a dirge for empires gone!

Awake thy pealing harp again,
But breathe a more exulting strain,
Young Guido! for awhile forgot
Be the dark secrets of thy lot,
And rouse th’ inspiring soul of song
To speed the banquet’s hour along!--
The feast is spread, and music’s call
Is echoing through the royal hall,
And banners wave and trophies shine
O’er stately guests in glittering line;
And Otho seeks awhile to chase
The thoughts he never can erase,
And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep
Rise like a spirit on his sleep--
The still small voice of conscience--die,
Lost in the din of revelry.
On his pale brow dejection lowers,
But that shall yield to festal hours;
A gloom is in his faded eye,
But that from music’s power shall fly;
His wasted cheek is wan with care,
But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there.
Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high,
Strike the bold chord exultingly!
And pour upon the enraptured ear
Such strains as warriors love to hear!
Let the rich mantling goblet flow,
And banish aught resembling woe;
And if a thought intrude, of power
To mar the bright convivial hour,
Still must its influence lurk unseen,
And cloud the heart--but not the mien!

Away, vain dream!--on Otho’s brow,
Still darker lower the shadows now;
Changed are his features, now o’erspread
With the cold paleness of the dead;
Now crimson’d with a hectic dye,
The burning flush of agony!
His lip is quivering, and his breast
Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress’d;
Now his dim eye seems fix’d and glazed,
And now to heaven in anguish raised;
And as, with unavailing aid,
Around him throng his guests dismay’d,
He sinks--while scarce his struggling breath
Hath power to falter--“This is death!”

Then rush’d that haughty child of song,
Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng.
Fill’d with a strange delirious light,
His kindling eye shone wildly bright;
And on the sufferer’s mien awhile
Gazing with stem vindictive smile,
A feverish glow of triumph dyed
His burning cheek, while thus he cried:--
“Yes! these are death-pangs--on thy brow
Is set the seal of vengeance now!
Oh! well was mix’d the deadly draught,
And long and deeply hast thou quaff’d;
And bitter as thy pangs may be,
They are but guerdons meet from me!
Yet these are but a moment’s throes--
Howe’er intense, they soon shall close.
Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath--
_My_ life hath been a lingering death,
Since one dark hour of woe and crime,
A blood-spot on the page of time!

“Deem’st thou my mind of reason void?
It is not frenzied--but destroy’d!
Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought--
That work of ruin thou hast wrought!
The secret of thy doom to tell,
My name alone suffices well!
Stephania!--once a hero’s bride!
Otho! thou know’st the rest--_he died_.
Yes! trusting to a monarch’s word,
The Roman fell, untried, unheard!
And thou, whose every pledge was vain,
How couldst _thou_ trust in aught again?

“He died, and I was changed--my soul,
A lonely wanderer, spurn’d control.
From peace, and light, and glory hurl’d,
The outcast of a purer world,
I saw each brighter hope o’erthrown,
And lived for one dread task alone.
The task is closed, fulfill’d the vow--
The hand of death is on thee now.
Betrayer! in thy turn betray’d,
The debt of blood shall soon be paid!
Thine hour is come--the time hath been
My heart had shrunk from such a scene;
_That_ feeling long is past--my fate
Hath made me stern as desolate.

“Ye that around me shuddering stand,
Ye chiefs and princes of the land!
Mourn ye a guilty monarch’s doom?
Ye wept not o’er the patriot’s tomb!
_He_ sleeps unhonour’d--yet be mine
To share his low, neglected shrine.
His soul with freedom finds a home,
His grave is that of glory--Rome!
Are not the great of old with her,
That city of the sepulchre?
Lead me to death! and let me share,
The slumbers of the mighty there!”

The day departs--that fearful day
Fades in calm loveliness away:
From purple heavens its lingering beam
Seems melting into Tiber’s stream,
And softly tints each Roman hill
With glowing light, as clear and still
As if, unstain’d by crime or woe,
Its hours had pass’d in silent flow.
The day sets calmly--it hath been
Mark’d with a strange and awful scene:
One guilty bosom throbs no more,
And Otho’s pangs and life are o’er.
And thou, ere yet another sun
His burning race hath brightly run,
Released from anguish by thy foes,
Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose.
Yes! on thy country’s lovely sky
Fix yet once more thy parting eye!
A few short hours--and all shall be
The silent and the past for thee.
Oh! thus with tempests of a day
We struggle, and we pass away,
Like the wild billows as they sweep,
Leaving no vestige on the deep!
And o’er thy dark and lowly bed
The sons of future days shall tread,
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot,
By them unknown, by thee forgot.

[114] “As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding a vessel, he immediately went on board, and coasted along to Circæum with a favourable wind. The pilots were preparing immediately to sail from thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, or had not yet given up all his hopes in Cæsar, he disembarked, and travelled a hundred furlongs on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his destination. Repenting, however, afterwards, he left that road, and made again for the sea. He passed the night in the most perplexing and horrid thoughts; insomuch, that he was sometimes inclined to go privately into Cæsar’s house, and stab himself upon the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the divine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was deterred from this by the fear of torture. Other alternatives, equally distressful, presented themselves. At last he put himself in the hands of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by sea to Cajeta, where he had a delightful retreat in the summer, when the Etesian winds set in. There was a temple of Apollo on that coast, from which a flight of crows came with great noise towards Cicero’s vessel as it was making land. They perched on both sides the sail-yard, where some sat croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. All looked upon this as an ill omen; yet Cicero went on shore, and, entering his house, lay down to repose himself. In the meantime a number of the crows settled in the chamber-window, and croaked in the most doleful manner. One of them even entered it, and, alighting on the bed, attempted with its beak to draw off the clothes with which he had covered his face. On sight of this, the servants began to reproach themselves. ‘Shall we,’ said they, ‘remain to be spectators of our master’s murder? Shall we not protect him, so innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the brute creatures give him marks of their care and attention?’ Then, partly by entreaty, partly by force, they got him into his litter, and carried him towards the sea.”--Plutarch, _Life of Cicero_.

[115]

“Now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair.”--Milton.

[116] Mount Gargano. “This ridge of mountains forms a very large promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated from the Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severo. We took a ride into the heart of the mountains through shady dells and noble woods, which brought to our minds the venerable groves that in ancient times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the rugged sides of Garganus:

‘Aquilonibus
Querceta Gargani laborant,
Et foliis viduantur orni.’--Horace.

“There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and common oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The sheltered valleys are industriously cultivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant vegetation.”--Swinburne’s _Travels_.

[117] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found in original page 90 footnote 3. “In yonder nether world where shall I seek His bright appearances, or footstep trace?”--Milton.

THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

[“Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably than in battle, determined to attack Cæsar at the same time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execution of this design, he ordered his servants at supper to render him their best services that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might belong to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were affected, and wept to hear him talk thus; which when he perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that his expectations of a glorious victory were at least equal to those of an honourable death. At the dead of night, when universal silence reigned through the city--a silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day--on a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to the enemy’s camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him.”--Langhorne’s _Plutarch_.]

Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array,
O stately Alexandria!--yet the sound
Of mirth and music, at the close of day,
Swell’d from thy splendid fabrics far around
O’er camp and wave. Within the royal hall,
In gay magnificence the feast was spread;
And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall,
A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed
O’er many a column, rich with precious dyes,
That tinge the marble’s vein, ’neath Afric’s burning skies.

And soft and clear that wavering radiance play’d
O’er sculptured forms, that round the pillar’d scene
Calm and majestic rose, by art array’d
In godlike beauty, awfully serene.
Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined
Round that luxurious board!--in every face
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind,
Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace,
Though vainly mask’d in smiles which are not mirth,
But the proud spirit’s veil thrown o’er the woes of earth.

Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloom
May still survive the wearers--and the rose
Perchance may scarce be wither’d, when the tomb
Receives the mighty to its dark repose!
The day must dawn on battle, and may set
In death--but fill the mantling wine-cup high!
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e’en yet
Lend her one hour for parting revelry.
They who the empire of the world possess’d
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest.

Its joys! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir’s mien,
And read their annals on that brow of care!
Midst pleasure’s lotus-bowers his steps have been:
Earth’s brightest pathway led him to despair.
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire
The buoyant energies of days gone by;
There is delusion in its meteor fire,
And all within is shame, is agony!
Away! the tear in bitterness may flow,
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe.

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame,
O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow,
To that ascendant and undying name,
Pleads with stem loftiness thy right e’en now.
Thy glory is departed, but hath left
A lingering light around thee: in decay
Not less than kingly--though of all bereft,
Thou seem’st as empire had not pass’d away.
Supreme in ruin! teaching hearts elate
A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate!

But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made
His desolation--thou art by his side,
In all thy sovereignty of charms array’d,
To meet the storm with still unconquer’d pride.
Imperial being! e’en though many a stain
Of error be upon thee, there is power
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign
O’er the stern genius of misfortune’s hour;
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye
E’en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.

Thine aspect, all impassion’d, wears a light
Inspiring and inspired--thy cheek a dye,
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright
With the deep glow of feverish energy.
Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught
With an immortal fire--in every beam
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought,
But wild and awful as a sibyl’s dream;
For thou with death hast communed to attain
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain.[118]

And the stern courage by such musings lent,
Daughter of Afric! o’er thy beauty throws
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent
With all the majesty of mighty woes:
While he, so fondly, fatally adored,
Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet,
Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar’d
Can deem the day-star of its glory set;
Scarce his charm’d heart believes that power can be
In sovereign fate, o’er him thus fondly loved by thee.

But there is sadness in the eyes around,
Which mark that ruin’d leader, and survey
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound
Strange triumph chases haughtily away.
“Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!” he cries;
“Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep!
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies
Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep;
While sounds of revel float o’er shore and sea,
And the red bowl again is crown’d--but not for me.

“Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o’er,
O victors of Philippi! many a field
Hath yielded palms to us: one effort more!
By one stern conflict must our doom be seal’d.
Forget not, Romans! o’er a subject world
How royally your eagle’s wing hath spread,
Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl’d,
Now bursts the tempest on his crested head!
Yet sovereign still, if banish’d from the sky,
The sun’s indignant bird, he must not droop--but die.”

The feast is o’er. ’Tis night, the dead of night--
Unbroken stillness broods o’er earth and deep;
From Egypt’s heaven of soft and starry light
The moon looks cloudless o’er a world of sleep.
For those who wait the morn’s awakening beams,
The battle-signal to decide their doom,
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams;--
Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb;
Dreams dark and ominous, but _there_ to cease,
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace.

Wake, slumberers! wake! Hark! heard ye not a sound
Of gathering tumult?--Near and nearer still
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around.
Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill.
Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread
Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note
Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread,
Is heard upon the midnight air to float;
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth,
Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the earth.

These are no mortal sounds--their thrilling strain
Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high;
And the deep horror chilling every vein
Owns them of stern terrific augury.
Beings of worlds unknown! ye pass away,
O ye invisible and awful throng!
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay
To Cæsar’s camp exulting move along.
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky
By that dread sign reveals thy doom--“Despair and die!”[119]

[118] Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being desirous to know which was least painful in the operation, she tried them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their operation, she found to be attended with violent pain and convulsions; such as were milder were slow in their effect: she therefore applied herself to the examination of venomous creatures; and at length she found that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of death, for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy.--See Plutarch.

[119]

“To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword; despair and die!”
_Richard III._

ALARIC IN ITALY.

[After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the German and Scythian hordes united under the command of Alaric, the historian of _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ thus proceeds:--“Whether fame, or conquest, or riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with an indefatigable ardour, which could neither be quelled by adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the neighbouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered only as an intermediate step to the important expedition which he already meditated against the continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the narrowest passage, about one mile and a half broad; and the fabulous monsters of the deep--the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool of Charybdis--could terrify none but the most timid and unskilful mariners: yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered many of the transports. Their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element; and the whole design was defeated by the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests. The ferocious character of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mournful applause. By the labour of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted the course of the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of Consentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed; the waters were then restored to their natural channel, and the secret spot where the remains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the work.”--_Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. v. p. 329.]

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?
The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?
His steps have track’d that glorious clime,
The birth-place of heroic time;
But he, in northern deserts bred,
Spared not the living for the dead,[120]
Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries
From temple and from tomb arise.
He pass’d--the light of burning fanes
Hath been his torch o’er Grecian plains;

And woke they not--the brave, the free,
To guard their own Thermopylæ?
And left they not their silent dwelling,
When Scythia’s note of war was swelling?
No! where the bold Three Hundred slept,
Sad freedom battled not--but wept!
For nerveless then the Spartan’s hand,
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band;
Nor one high soul from slumber broke
When Athens own’d the northern yoke.

But was there none for _thee_ to dare
The conflict, scorning to despair?
O City of the seven proud hills!
Whose name e’en yet the spirit thrills,
As doth a clarion’s battle-call--
Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall?
Did no Camillus from the chain
Ransom thy Capitol again?
Oh, who shall tell the days to be
No patriot rose to bleed for thee!

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?
The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?
That fearful sound, at midnight deep,[121]
Burst on the Eternal City’s sleep:--
How woke the mighty? She whose will
So long had bid the world be still,
Her sword a sceptre, and her eye
Th’ ascendant star of destiny!
She woke--to view the dread array
Of Scythians rushing to their prey,
To hear her streets resound the cries
Pour’d from a thousand agonies!
While the strange light of flames, that gave
A ruddy glow to Tiber’s wave,
Bursting in that terrific hour
From fane and palace, dome and tower,
Reveal’d the throngs, for aid divine,
Clinging to many a worshipp’d shrine:
Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed
O’er spear and sword, with carnage red,
Shone o’er the suppliant and the flying,
And kindled pyres for Romans dying.

Weep, Italy! alas, that e’er
Should tears alone thy wrongs declare!
The time hath been when _thy_ distress
Had roused up empires for redress!
Now, her long race of glory run,
Without a combat Rome is won,
And from her plunder’d temples forth
Rush the fierce children of the North,
To share beneath more genial skies
Each joy their own rude clime denies.

Ye who on bright Campania’s shore
Bade your fair villas rise of yore,
With all their graceful colonnades,
And crystal baths, and myrtle shades,
Along the blue Hesperian deep,
Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep--
Beneath your olive and your vine
Far other inmates now recline;
And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed
With rich libations duly shed,[122]
O’er guests, unlike your vanish’d friends,
Its bowery canopy extends.
For them the southern heaven is glowing,
The bright Falernian nectar flowing;
For them the marble halls unfold,
Where nobler beings dwelt of old,
Whose children for barbarian lords
Touch the sweet lyre’s resounding chords.
Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twine
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine.
Yet, though luxurious they repose
Beneath Corinthian porticoes--
While round them into being start
The marvels of triumphant art--
Oh! not for them hath Genius given
To Parian stone the fire of heaven,
Enshrining in the forms he wrought
A bright eternity of thought.
In vain the natives of the skies
In breathing marble round them rise,
And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade
People the dark-green laurel shade.
Cold are the conqueror’s heart and eye
To visions of divinity;
And rude his hand which dares deface
The models of immortal grace.

Arouse ye from your soft delights!
Chieftains! the war-note’s call invites;
And other lands must yet be won,
And other deeds of havoc done.
Warriors! your flowery bondage break,
Sons of the stormy North, awake!
The barks are launching from the steep--
Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,[123]
And Afric’s burning winds afar
Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric’s war.
Where shall his race of victory close?
When shall the ravaged earth repose?
But hark! what wildly mingling cries
From Scythia’s camp tumultuous rise?
Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air?
A sterner conquerer hath been there!
A conqueror--yet his paths are peace,
He comes to bring the world’s release;
He of the sword that knows no sheath,
The avenger, the deliverer--Death!

Is then that daring spirit fled?
Doth Alaric slumber with the dead?
Tamed are the warrior’s pride and strength,
And he and earth are calm at length.
The land where heaven unclouded shines,
Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines;
The land by conquest made his own,
Can yield him now--a grave alone.
But his--her lord from Alp to sea--
No common sepulchre shall be!
Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye
Its buried wealth may ne’er descry!
Where mortal foot may never tread
Above a victor-monarch’s bed.
Let not his royal dust be hid
’Neath star-aspiring pyramid;
Nor bid the gather’d mound arise,
To bear his memory to the skies.
Years roll away--oblivion claims
Her triumph o’er heroic names;
And hands profane disturb the clay
That once was fired with glory’s ray;
And Avarice, from their secret gloom,
Drags e’en the treasures of the tomb.
But thou, O leader of the free!
That general doom awaits not thee:
Thou, where no step may e’er intrude,
Shalt rest in regal solitude,
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound,
The Awakener’s final trumpet sound.
Turn ye the waters from their course,
Bid Nature yield to human force,
And hollow in the torrent’s bed
A chamber for the mighty dead.
The work is done--the captive’s hand
Hath well obey’d his lord’s command.
Within that royal tomb are cast
The richest trophies of the past,
The wealth of many a stately dome,
The gold and gems of plunder’d Rome;
And when the midnight stars are beaming,
And ocean waves in stillness gleaming,
Stern in their grief, his warriors bear
The Chastener of the Nations there;
To rest at length from victory’s toil,
Alone, with all an empire’s spoil!

Then the freed current’s rushing wave
Rolls o’er the secret of the grave;
Then streams the martyr’d captives’ blood
To crimson that sepulchral flood,
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep
The mystery in its bosom deep.
Time hath past on since then--and swept
From earth the urns where heroes slept;
Temples of gods and domes of kings
Are mouldering with forgotten things;
Yet not shall ages e’er molest
The viewless home of Alaric’s rest:
Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river,
The guardian of his dust for ever.

[120] After the taking of Athens by Sylla, “though such numbers were put to the sword, there were as many who laid violent hands upon themselves in grief for their sinking country. What reduced the best men among them to this despair of finding any mercy or moderate terms for Athens, was the well-known cruelty of Sylla: yet, partly by the intercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles who threw themselves at his feet--partly by the entreaties of the senators who attended him in that expedition, and being himself satiated with blood besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his hand; and in compliment to the ancient Athenians, he said, ‘he forgave the many for the sake of the few, the _living for the dead_.’”--Plutarch.

[121] “At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silently opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremendous sound of the Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the foundation of Rome, the imperial city, which had subdued and civilised so considerable a portion of mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury of the tribes of Germany and Scythia.”--_Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. v. p. 311.

[122] The plane-tree was much cultivated among the Romans, on account of its extraordinary shade; and they used to nourish it with wine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observes) that “this tree loved that liquor as well as those who used to drink it under its shade.”--See the notes to Melmoth’s _Pliny_.

[123] Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and peculiar dominion of Ceres.

THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL.

[“This governor, who had braved death when it was at a distance, and protested that the sun should never see him survive Carthage--this fierce Asdrubal was so mean-spirited as to come alone, and privately throw himself at the conqueror’s feet. The general, pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner understood that their commander had abandoned the place, than they threw open the gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a second citadel within the first: there the proconsul attacked them; and these unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one part to another, till they got to the roof of the building: there Asdrubal’s wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a day of triumph; and after having uttered the most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw standing below with Emilianus,--‘Base coward!’ said she, ‘the mean things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee; thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children.’ Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them both, and while they were yet struggling for life, threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped down after them into the flames.”--_Ancient Universal History._]

The sun sets brightly--but a ruddier glow
O’er Afric’s heaven the flames of Carthage throw.
Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire
In lurid splendour from her domes aspire;
Sway’d by the wind, they wave--while glares the sky
As when the desert’s red simoom is nigh;
The sculptured altar and the pillar’d hall
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall;
Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams--
Rock, wave, and isle are crimson’d by its beams;
While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains,
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes;
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around,
Swell from the victors’ tents with ivy crown’d.[124]
--But mark! from yon fair temple’s loftiest height
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight,
All regal in magnificent attire,
And sternly beauteous in terrific ire?
She might be deem’d a Pythia in the hour
Of dread communion and delirious power;
A being more than earthly, in whose eye
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency.
The flames are gathering round--intensely bright,
Full on her features glares their meteor light;
But a wild courage sits triumphant there,
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair;
A daring spirit, in its woes elate,
Mightier than death, untameable by fate.
The dark profusion of her locks unbound
Waves like a warrior’s floating plumage round;
Flush’d is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien--
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene.
Are those _her_ infants, that with suppliant cry
Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh,
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest,
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast?
Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain,
And passion, awfully vindictive, reign?

Fix’d is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands
Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands;
On him who left her to that burning tomb,
Alone to share her children’s martyrdom;
Who, when his country perish’d, fled the strife,
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life.
“Live, traitor! live!” she cries, “since dear to thee,
E’en in thy fetters, can existence be!
Scorn’d and dishonour’d live!--with blasted name,
The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame.
O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain!
Still may the manès of thy children rise
To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes;
Still may their voices on the haunted air
In fearful whispers tell thee to despair,
Till vain remorse thy wither’d heart consume,
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb!
E’en now my sons shall die--and thou, their sire,
In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire.
Think’st thou I love them not?--’Twas thine to fly--
’Tis mine with these to suffer and to die.
Behold their fate!--the arms that cannot save
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave.”

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams,
Swift from her children’s hearts the life-blood streams;
With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest;
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high,
Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.

[124] It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with ivy.

HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE.

[From _Maccabees_, book ii. chapter 3, verse 21. “Then it would have pitied a man to see the falling down of the multitude of all sorts, and the fear of the high priest, being in such an agony.--22. They then called upon the Almighty Lord to keep the things committed of trust safe and sure, for those that had committed them.--23. Nevertheless Heliodorus executed that which was decreed.--24. Now as he was there present himself, with his guard about the treasury, the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all Power, caused a great apparition, so that all that presumed to come in with him were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and were sore afraid.--25. For there appeared unto them a horse with a terrible rider upon him, and adorned with a very fair covering; and he ran fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his fore-feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse had complete harness of gold.--26. Moreover, two other young men appeared before him, notable in strength, excellent in beauty, and comely in apparel, who stood by him on either side, and scourged him continually, and gave him many sore stripes.--27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to the ground, and was compassed with great darkness; but they that were with him took him up, and put him into a litter.--28. Thus him that lately came with great train, and with all his guard into the said treasury, they carried out, being unable to help himself with his weapons, and manifestly they acknowledged the power of God.--29. For he by the hand of God was cast down, and lay speechless without all hope of life.”]

A sound of woe in Salem! mournful cries
Rose from her dwellings--youthful cheeks were pale,
Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes,
And voices mingling in tumultuous wail;
Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer,
And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair.

Thy daughters, Judah! weeping, laid aside
The regal splendour of their fair array,
With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty’s pride,
And throng’d the streets in hurrying, wild dismay;
While knelt thy priests before His awful shrine
Who made of old renown and empire thine.

But on the spoiler moves! The temple’s gate,
The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold;
And all the scene reveals its solemn state,
Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold;
And man with eye unhallow’d views th’ abode,
The sever’d spot, the dwelling-place of God.

Where art thou, Mighty Presence! that of yore
Wert wont between the cherubim to rest,
Veil’d in a cloud of glory, shadowing o’er
Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest?
Thou! that didst make fair Sion’s ark thy throne,
And call the oracle’s recess thine own!

Angel of God! that through the Assyrian host,
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour,
To tame the proud, to hush the invader’s boast,
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power,
Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene,
And death alone reveal’d where thou hadst been.

Wilt thou not wake, O Chastener! in thy might,
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill,
Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah’s light
Hath stream’d the house of holiness to fill?
Oh! yet once more defend thy loved domain,
Eternal One! Deliverer! rise again!

Fearless of thee, the plunderer undismay’d
Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore
Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid,
The orphan’s portion and the widow’s store:
What recks _his_ heart though age unsuccour’d die,
And want consume the cheek of infancy?

Away, intruders!--hark! a mighty sound!
Behold, a burst of light!--away, away!
A fearful glory fills the temple round,
A vision bright in terrible array!
And lo! a steed of no terrestrial frame,
His path a whirlwind and his breath a flame!

His neck is clothed with thunder,[125] and his mane
Seems waving fire--the kindling of his eye
Is as a meteor--ardent with disdain
His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty!
Instinct with light he seems, and form’d to bear
Some dread archangel through the fields of air.

But who is he, in panoply of gold,
Throned on that burning charger? Bright his form,
Yet in its brightness awful to behold,
And girt with all the terrors of the storm!
Lightning is on his helmet’s crest--and fear
Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe.

And by his side two radiant warriors stand,
All arm’d, and kingly in commanding grace--
Oh! more than kingly--godlike!--sternly grand,
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face
Beams with the beauty to immortals given,
Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven.

Then sinks each gazer’s heart--each knee is bow’d
In trembling awe; but, as to fields of fight,
Th’ unearthly war-steed, rushing through the crowd,
Bursts on their leader in terrific might;
And the stern angels of that dread abode
Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God.

Darkness--thick darkness!--low on earth he lies,
Rash Heliodorus--motionless and pale--
Bloodless his cheek, and o’er his shrouded eyes
Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil;
And thus th’ oppressor, by his fear-struck train,
Is borne from that inviolable fane.

The light returns--the warriors of the sky
Have pass’d, with all their dreadful pomp, away;
Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high
Triumphant as in Judah’s elder day;
Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill!
Salem, exult! thy God is with thee still.

[125] “Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?”--_Job_, chap. xxxix. v. 19.

NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA.

[“En même temps que les Génois poursuivoient avec ardeur la guerre contre Pise, ils étoient déchirés eux-mêmes par une discorde civile. Les consuls de l’année 1169, pour rétablir la paix dans leur patrie, au milieu des factions sourdes à leur voix et plus puissantes qu’eux, furent obligés d’ourdir en quelque sorte une conspiration. Ils commencèrent par s’assurer secrètement des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs des citoyens, qui cependant étoient entraînés dans les émeutes par leur parenté avec les chefs de faction; puis, se concertant avec le vénérable vieillard, Hugues, leur archevêque, ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du soleil, appeler au son des cloches les citoyens au parlement: ils se flattoient que la surprise et l’alarme de cette convocation inattendue, au milieu de l’obscurité de la nuit, rendroit l’assemblée et plus complète et plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant au parlement général, virent, au milieu de la place publique, le vieil archevêque, entouré de son clergé en habit de cérémonies, et portant des torches allumées; tandis que les reliques de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Gênes, étoient exposées devant lui, et que les citoyens les plus respectables portoient à leurs mains des croix suppliantes. Dès que l’assemblée fut formée, le vieillard se leva, et de sa voix cassée il conjura les chefs de parti, au nom du Dieu de paix, au nom du salut de leurs âmes, au nom de leur patrie et de la liberté, dont leurs discordes entraîneroient la ruine, de jurer sur l’évangile l’oubli de leurs querelles, et la paix à venir.

“Les hérauts, dès qu’il eut fini de parler, s’avancèrent aussitôt vers Roland Avogado, le chef de l’une des factions, qui étoit présent à l’assemblée, et, secondés par les acclamations de tout le peuple, et par les prières de ses parens eux-mêmes, ils le sommèrent de se conformer au vœu des consuls et de la nation.

“Roland, à leur approche, déchira ses habits, et, s’asseyant par terre en versant des larmes, il appela à haute voix les morts qu’il avoit juré de venger, et qui ne lui permettoient pas de pardonner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne pouvoit le déterminer à s’avancer, les consuls eux-mêmes, l’archevêque et le clergé, s’approchèrent de lui, et, renouvelant leurs prières, ils l’entraînèrent enfin, et lui firent jurer sur l’évangile l’oubli de ses inimitiés passées.

“Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et Ingo de Volta, n’étoient pas présens à l’assemblée, mais le peuple et le clergé se portèrent en foule à leurs maisons; ils les trouvèrent dejà ébranlés par ce qu’ils venoient d’apprendre, et, profitant de leur émotion, ils leur firent jurer une réconciliation sincère, et donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de la faction opposée. Alors les cloches de la ville sonnèrent en témoignage d’allégresse, et l’archevêque de retour sur la place publique entonna un Te Deum avec tout le peuple, eu honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauvé leur patrie.”--_Histoire des Républiques Italiennes_, vol. ii. pp. 149-150.]

In Genoa, when the sunset gave
Its last warm purple to the wave,
No sound of war, no voice of fear,
Was heard, announcing danger near:
Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate
But slumber’d till its hour of fate,
Yet calmly, at the twilight’s close,
Sunk the wide city to repose.

But when deep midnight reign’d around,
All sudden woke the alarm-bell’s sound,
Full swelling, while the hollow breeze
Bore its dread summons o’er the seas.
Then, Genoa, from their slumber started
Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted;
Then mingled with th’ awakening peal
Voices, and steps, and clash of steel.
Arm, warriors! arm! for danger calls;
Arise to guard your native walls!
With breathless haste the gathering throng
Hurry the echoing streets along;
Through darkness rushing to the scene
Where their bold counsels still convene.

But there a blaze of torches bright
Pours its red radiance on the night,
O’er fane, and dome, and column playing,
With every fitful night-wind swaying:
Now floating o’er each tall arcade,
Around the pillar’d scene display’d,
In light relieved by depth of shade:
And now, with ruddy meteor glare,
Full streaming on the silvery hair
And the bright cross of him who stands
Rearing that sign with suppliant hands,
Girt with his consecrated train,
The hallow’d servants of the fane.
Of life’s past woes the fading trace
Hath given that aged patriarch’s face
Expression holy, deep, resign’d,
The calm sublimity of mind.
Years o’er his snowy head have pass’d,
And left him of his race the last,
Alone on earth--yet still his mien
Is bright with majesty serene;
And those high hopes, whose guiding star
Shines from th’ eternal worlds afar,
Have with that light illumed his eye
Whose fount is immortality,
And o’er his features pour’d a ray
Of glory, not to pass away.
He seems a being who hath known
Communion with his God alone,
On earth by nought but pity’s tie
Detain’d a moment from on high!
One to sublimer worlds allied,
One from all passion purified,
E’en now half mingled with the sky,
And all prepared--oh! not to die--
But, like the prophet, to aspire,
In heaven’s triumphal car of fire.
He speaks--and from the throngs around
Is heard not e’en a whisper’d sound;
Awe-struck each heart, and fix’d each glance,
They stand as in a spell-bound trance:
He speaks--oh! who can hear nor own
The might of each prevailing tone?

“Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long
Aroused to strife by mutual wrong,
Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate
Hath made your country desolate;
Now by the love ye bear her name,
By that pure spark of holy flame
On freedom’s altar brightly burning,
But, once extinguished, ne’er returning;
By all your hopes of bliss to come
When burst the bondage of the tomb;
By Him, the God who bade us live
To aid each other, and forgive--
I call upon ye to resign
Your discords at your country’s shrine,
Each ancient feud in peace atone,
Wield your keen swords for her alone,
And swear upon the cross, to cast
Oblivion’s mantle o’er the past!”

No voice replies. The holy bands
Advance to where yon chieftain stands,
With folded arms, and brow of gloom
O’ershadow’d by his floating plume.
To him they lift the cross--in vain:
He turns--oh! say not with disdain,
But with a mien of haughty grief,
That seeks not e’en from heaven relief.
He rends his robes--he sternly speaks--
Yet tears are on the warrior’s checks:--
“Father! not thus the wounds may close
Inflicted by eternal foes.
Deem’st thou _thy_ mandate can efface
The dread volcano’s burning trace?
Or bid the earthquake’s ravaged scene
Be smiling as it once hath been?
No! for the deeds the sword hath done
Forgiveness is not lightly won;
The words by hatred spoke may not
Be as a summer breeze forgot!
’Tis vain--we deem the war-feud’s rage
A portion of our heritage.
Leaders, now slumbering with their fame,
Bequeath’d us that undying flame;
Hearts that have long been still and cold
Yet rule us from their silent mould;
And voices, heard on earth no more,
Speak to our spirits as of yore.
Talk not of mercy!--blood alone
The stain of bloodshed may atone;
Nought else can pay that mighty debt,
The dead forbid us to forget.”

He pauses. From the patriarch’s brow
There beams more lofty grandeur now;
His reverend form, his aged hand,
Assume a gesture of command;
His voice is awful, and his eye
Fill’d with prophetic majesty.

“The dead!--and deem’st thou _they_ retain
Aught of terrestrial passion’s stain?
Of guilt incurr’d in days gone by,
Aught but the fearful penalty?
And say’st thou, mortal! blood alone
For deeds of slaughter may atone?
There _hath_ been blood--by Him ’twas shed
To expiate every crime who bled;
Th’ absolving God, who died to save,
And rose in victory from the grave!
And by that stainless offering given
Alike for all on earth to heaven;
By that inevitable hour
When death shall vanquish pride and power,
And each departing passion’s force
Concentrate all in late remorse;
And by the day when doom shall be
Pass’d on earth’s millions, and on thee--
The doom that shall not be repeal’d,
Once utter’d, and for ever seal’d--
I summon thee, O child of clay!
To cast thy darker thoughts away,
And meet thy foes in peace and love,
As thou wouldst join the blest above.”

Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling
Is o’er the chieftain’s bosom stealing.
Oh, not in vain the pleading cries
Of anxious thousands round him rise!
He yields: devotion’s mingled sense
Of faith, and fear, and penitence,
Pervading all his soul, he bows
To offer on the cross his vows,
And that best incense to the skies,
Each evil passion’s sacrifice.

Then tears from warriors’ eyes were flowing,
High hearts with soft emotions glowing;
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting,
And ardent throngs in transport meeting;
And eager footsteps forward pressing,
And accents loud in joyous blessing;
And when their first wild tumults cease,
A thousand voices echo “Peace!”

Twilight’s dim mist hath roll’d away,
And the rich Orient burns with day;
Then as to greet the sunbeam’s birth,
Rises the choral hymn of earth--
Th’ exulting strain through Genoa swelling,
Of peace and holy rapture telling.

Far float the sounds o’er vale and steep,
The seaman hears them on the deep--
So mellow’d by the gale, they seem
As the wild music of a dream.
But not on mortal ear alone
Peals the triumphant anthem’s tone;
For beings of a purer sphere
Bend with celestial joy, to hear.

THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.