Chapter XXV: Part II (4)

Through the dark and lonely streets it went,
Till the slumberers woke in dread;--
The sound of a passing armament,
With the charger’s stony tread.
There was heard no trumpet’s peal,
But the heavy tramp of steel,
As a host’s to combat led.

Through the dark and lonely streets it pass’d,
And the hollow pavement rang,
And the towers, as with a sweeping blast,
Rock’d to the stormy clang!
But the march of the viewless train
Went on to a royal fane,
Where a priest his night-hymn sang.

There was knocking that shook the marble floor,
And a voice at the gate, which said--
“That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador,
Was there in his arms array’d;
And that with him, from the tomb,
Had the Count Gonzalez come
With a host, uprisen to aid!

“And they came for the buried king that lay
At rest in that ancient fane;
For he must be arm’d on the battle-day,
With them to deliver Spain!”
--Then the march went sounding on,
And the Moors by noontide sun
Were dust on Tolosa’s plain.

[245] See Southey’s _Chronicle of the Cid_, p. 352.

GREEK SONGS

THE STORM OF DELPHI.[246]

Far through the Delphian shades
An Eastern trumpet rung!
And the startled eagle rush’d on high,
With a sounding flight through the fiery sky;
And banners, o’er the shadowy glades,
To the sweeping winds were flung.

Banners, with deep-red gold
All waving as a flame,
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed,
And a peal of Asia’s war-notes told
That in arms the Persian came.

He came with starry gems
On his quiver and his crest;
With starry gems, at whose heart the day
Of the cloudless Orient burning lay,
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems,
As onward his thousands press’d.

But a gloom fell o’er their way,
And a heavy moan went by!
A moan, yet not like the wind’s low swell,
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell,
But a mortal murmur of dismay,
Or a warrior’s dying sigh!

A gloom fell o’er their way!
’Twas not the shadow cast
By the dark pine-boughs, as they cross’d the blue
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue;
The air was fill’d with a mightier sway--
But on the spearmen pass’d!

And hollow to their tread
Came the echoes of the ground;
And banners droop’d, as with dews o’erborne,
And the wailing blast of the battle-horn
Had an alter’d cadence, dull and dead,
Of strange foreboding sound.

But they blew a louder strain,
When the steep defiles were pass’d!
And afar the crown’d Parnassus rose,
To shine through heaven with his radiant snows,
And in golden light the Delphian fane
Before them stood at last!

In golden light it stood,
Midst the laurels gleaming lone;
For the Sun-god yet, with a lovely smile,
O’er its graceful pillars look’d awhile,
Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood
Grew deep round its mountain-throne.

And the Persians gave a shout!
But the marble walls replied
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore,
And a savage trumpet’s note peal’d out,
Till their hearts for terror died!

On the armour of the god
Then a viewless hand was laid;
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din,
And corslet brought from the shrine within,
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode,
And before its front array’d.

And a sudden silence fell
Through the dim and loaded air!
On the wild-bird’s wing and the myrtle spray,
And the very founts in their silvery way:
With a weight of sleep came down the spell,
Till man grew breathless there.

But the pause was broken soon!
’Twas not by song or lyre;
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers,
And the hearths were lone in the city’s towers,
But there burst a sound through the misty noon--
That battle-noon of fire!

It burst from earth and heaven!
It roll’d from crag and cloud!
For a moment on the mountain-blast
With a thousand stormy voices pass’d;
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven,
When the thunder peal’d aloud.

And the lightnings in their play
Flash’d forth, like javelins thrown:
Like sun-darts wing’d from the silver bow,
They smote the spear and the turban’d brow;
And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray,
And the banners were struck down!

And the massy oak-boughs crash’d
To the fire-bolts from on high,
And the forest lent its billowy roar,
While the glorious tempest onward bore,
And lit the streams, as they foam’d and dash’d,
With the fierce rain sweeping by.

Then rush’d the Delphian men
On the pale and scatter’d host.
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave,
They rush’d from the dim Corycian cave;
And the singing blast o’er wood and glen
Roll’d on, with the spears they toss’d.

There were cries of wild dismay,
There were shouts of warrior-glee,
There were savage sounds of the tempest’s mirth,
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth;
But the mount of song, when they died away,
Still rose, with its temple, free!

And the Pæan swell’d ere long,
Io Pæan! from the fane;
Io Pæan! for the war-array
On the crown’d Parnassus riven that day!
--Thou shalt rise _as_ free, thou mount of song!
With thy bounding streams again.

[246] See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitford’s _Greece_.

THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.[247]

Before the fiery sun--
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye,
In the free air, and on the war-field won--
Our fathers crown’d the Bowl of Liberty.

Amidst the tombs they stood,
The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies,
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood
Had steep’d the soil in hues of sacrifice.

They call’d the glorious dead,
In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh,
And pour’d rich odours o’er their battle-bed,
And bade them to their rite of Liberty.

They call’d them from the shades--
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell
How softer light th’ immortal clime pervades,
And music floats o’er meads of asphodel.

Then fast the bright-red wine
Flow’d to _their_ names who taught the world to die,
And made the land’s green turf a living shrine,
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.[248]

So the rejoicing earth
Took from her vines again the blood she gave,
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth
From the free soil, thus hallow’d to the brave.

_We_ have the battle-fields,
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky,
We have the founts the purple vintage yields;
--When shall _we_ crown the Bowl of Liberty?

[247] This and the following piece appeared originally in the _New Monthly Magazine_.

[248] For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration of the battle of Platæa, see Potter’s _Antiquities of Greece_, vol. i. p. 389.

THE VOICE OF SCIO.

A voice from Scio’s isle--
A voice of song, a voice of old
Swept far as cloud or billow roll’d,
And earth was hush’d the while--

The souls of nations woke!
Where lies the land whose hills among
That voice of victory hath not rung,
As if a trumpet spoke?

To sky, and sea, and shore,
Of those whose blood on Ilion’s plain
Swept from the rivers to the main,
A glorious tale it bore.

Still by our sun-bright deep,
With all the fame that fiery lay
Threw round them, in its rushing way,
The sons of battle sleep.

And kings their turf have crown’d!
And pilgrims o’er the foaming wave
Brought garlands there: so rest the brave,
Who thus their bard have found!

A voice from Scio’s isle,
A voice as deep hath risen again;
As far shall peal its thrilling strain,
Where’er our sun may smile!

Let not its tones expire!
Such power to waken earth and heaven,
And might and vengeance, ne’er was given
To mortal song or lyre!

Know ye not whence it comes?
--From ruin’d hearths, from burning fanes,
From kindred blood on yon red plains,
From desolated homes!

’Tis with us through the night!
’Tis on our hills, ’tis in our sky--
Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high
O’er the mid-waves of fight!

THE SPARTANS’ MARCH.[249]

[“The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made to the ‘Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.’ The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur.”--Campbell, _On the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks_.]

’Twas morn upon the Grecian hills,
Where peasants dress’d the vines;
Sunlight was on Cithæron’s rills,
Arcadia’s rocks and pines.

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers,
Eurotas wander’d by,
When a sound arose from Sparta’s towers
Of solemn harmony.

Was it the hunters’ choral strain
To the woodland-goddess pour’d?
Did virgin hands in Pallas’ fane
Strike the full-sounding chord?

But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day!

And the mountain-echoes of the land
Swell’d through the deep blue sky;
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.

They march’d not with the trumpet’s blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out;
And the laurel groves, as on they pass’d,
Rang with no battle-shout!

They ask’d no clarion’s voice to fire
Their souls with an impulse high;
But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre
For the sons of liberty!

And still sweet flutes their path around
Sent forth Æolian breath;
They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death!

So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,
Save bearing back the Spartan shield,
Or on it proudly borne!

[249] Originally published in the _Edinburgh Magazine_.

THE URN AND SWORD.

They sought for treasures in the tomb,
Where gentler hands were wont to spread
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom,
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.[250]

They scatter’d far the greensward heap,
Where once those hands the bright wine pour’d;
--What found they in the home of sleep?--
A mouldering urn, a shiver’d sword!

An urn, which held the dust of one
Who died when hearths and shrines were free;
A sword, whose work was proudly done
Between our mountains and the sea.

And these are treasures!--undismay’d,
Still for their suffering land we trust,
Wherein the past its fame hath laid
With freedom’s sword and valour’s dust.

[250] See Potter’s _Grecian Antiquities_, vol. ii. p. 234.

THE MYRTLE BOUGH.

Still green, along our sunny shore,
The flowering myrtle waves,
As when its fragrant boughs of yore
Were offer’d on the graves--
The graves wherein our mighty men
Had rest, unviolated then.

Still green it waves! as when the hearth
Was sacred through the land;
And fearless was the banquet’s mirth,
And free the minstrel’s hand;
And guests, with shining myrtle crown’d,
Sent the wreath’d lyre and wine-cup round.

Still green! as when on holy ground
The tyrant’s blood was pour’d:
Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer’s sword!
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,
We still have sword and myrtle bough!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRÜTLI.

Whence art thou, flower? From holy ground,
Where freedom’s foot hath been!
Yet bugle-blast or trumpet-sound
Ne’er shook that solemn scene.

Flower of a noble field! thy birth
Was not where spears have cross’d,
And shiver’d helms have strewn the earth,
Midst banners won and lost.

But where the sunny hues and showers
Unto thy cup were given,
There met high hearts at midnight hours,
Pure hands were raised to heaven;

And vows were pledged that man should roam
Through every Alpine dell
Free as the wind, the torrent’s foam,
The shaft of William Tell.

And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer,
Hallow’d the pastoral sod;
And souls grew strong for battle there,
Nerved with the peace of God.

Before the Alps and stars they knelt,
That calm devoted band,
And rose, and made their spirits felt
Through all the mountain-land.

Then welcome, Grütli’s free-born flower!
Even in thy pale decay
There dwells a breath, a tone, a power,
Which all high thoughts obey.

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

And was thy home, pale wither’d thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky?
Wert thou a nursling of the spring,
The winds and suns of glorious Italy?

Those suns in golden light e’en now
Look o’er the poet’s lovely grave;
Those winds are breathing soft, but thou
Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.

The flowers o’er Posilippo’s brow
May cluster in their purple bloom,
But on th’ o’ershadowing ilex-bough,
Thy breezy place is void by Virgil’s tomb.

Thy place is void; oh! none on earth,
This crowded earth, may so remain,
Save that which souls of loftiest birth
Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.

Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung
On the green stem which once was thine;
When shall another strain be sung
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?

THE CHIEFTAIN’S SON.

Yes, it is ours!--the field is won,
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

Let me not hear your trumpets ring,
Swell not the battle-horn!
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring,
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!

Speak not of victory!--in the name
There is too much of woe!
Hush’d be the empty voice of Fame--
Call me back _his_ whose graceful head is low.

Speak not of victory!--from my halls
The sunny hour is gone!
The ancient banner on my walls
Must sink ere long; I had but him--but one!

Within the dwelling of my sires
The hearths will soon be cold,
With me must die the beacon-fires
That stream’d at midnight from the mountain-hold.

And let them fade, since this must be,
My lovely and my brave!
Was thy bright blood pour’d forth for me?
And is there but for stately youth a grave?

Speak to me once again, my boy!
Wilt thou not hear my call?
Thou wert so full of life and joy,
I had not dreamt of _this_--that thou couldst fall!

Thy mother watches from the steep
For thy returning plume;
How shall I tell her that thy sleep
Is of the silent house, th’ untimely tomb?

Thou didst not seem as one to die,
With all thy young renown!
--Ye saw his falchion’s flash on high,
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!

Slow be your march! the field is won!
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

A FRAGMENT.

Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave!
Let the pines murmur o’er your grave,
Your dirge be in the moaning wave--
We call you back no more!

Oh! there was mourning when ye fell,
In your own vales a deep-toned knell,
An agony, a wild farewell--
But that hath long been o’er.

Rest with your still and solemn fame;
The hills keep record of your name,
And never can a touch of shame
Darken the buried brow.

But we on changeful days are cast,
When bright names from their place fall fast;
And ye that with your glory pass’d,
We cannot mourn you now.

ENGLAND’S DEAD.

Son of the Ocean Isle!
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is rear’d o’er Glory’s bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep--
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England’s dead.

On Egypt’s burning plains,
By the pyramid o’ersway’d,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade;--

But let the angry sun
From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!--
_There_ slumber England’s dead.

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges’ banks at night
Is heard the tiger’s roar;--

But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread
For those that from their toils are gone,--
_There_ slumber England’s dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods
The Western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia’s woods,
The hunter’s bow is strung;--

But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow’s flight be sped!
Why should _they_ reck whose task is done?--
_There_ slumber England’s dead!

The mountain storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky
Like rose-leaves on the breeze;--

But let the storm rage on!
Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,--
_There_ slumber England’s dead.

On the frozen deep’s repose
’Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower;--

But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
_Their_ course with mast and flag is done,--
Even there sleep England’s dead.

The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep--
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England’s dead.

THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDS, HELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822.

[The _Gorseddau_, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, “in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light.” The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly) in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening of a _Gorsedd_, or meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of federation.--See Owen’s _Translation of the Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen_.]

Where met our bards of old?--the glorious throng,
They of the mountain and the battle-song?
They met--oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild Nature girt herself with power:
They met where streams flash’d bright from rocky caves;
They met where woods made moan o’er warriors’ graves,
And where the torrent’s rainbow spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman, in his hour of pride;
And where the Carnedd,[251] on its lonely hill,
Bore silent record of the mighty still;
And where the Druid’s ancient Cromlech[252] frown’d,
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.

There throng’d th’ inspired of yore!--on plain or height,
_In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light_,
And, baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread.
Well might their lays be lofty!--soaring thought
From Nature’s presence tenfold grandeur caught:
Well might bold freedom’s soul pervade the strains
Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament.
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high?
’Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by,
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest
With their good swords, upon the mountain’s breast;
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow,
Sever’d by cloud and storm from all below;
And the turf-mounds,[253] once girt by ruddy spears,
And the rock-altars of departed years.
--Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent’s roar,
The winds a thousand wild responses bore;
And the green land, whose every vale and glen
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,
On all her hills awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her children’s voice.

For us, not ours the festival to hold,
Midst the stone circles hallow’d thus of old;
Not where great Nature’s majesty and might
First broke all glorious on our infant sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave,
Not by the mountain-llyn,[254] the ocean-wave,
In these late days we meet--dark Mona’s shore,
Eryri’s[255] cliffs resound with harps no more!

But as the stream, (though time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its cavern’d urn,
From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,)
Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep;
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free,
Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee!
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong,
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less
To the green memory of thy loveliness,
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal’d from every height,
_In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light_!

[251] Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.

[252] Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a stone of covenant.

[253] The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mounts of turf.--_Pennant._

[254] Llyn, a lake or pool.

[255] _Eryri_, Snowdon.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.[256]

I come, I come! ye have call’d me long--
I come o’er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth
By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
Are veil’d with wreaths on Italian plains;--
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have look’d on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free,
And the pine has a hinge of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call’d out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird’s lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!

Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine--I may not stay.
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.

But ye!--ye are changed since ye met me last!
There is something bright from your features pass’d!
There is that come over your brow and eye
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die!
--Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet:
Oh! what have you look’d on since last we met?

Ye are changed, ye are changed!--and I see not
here
All whom I saw in the vanish’d year!
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets
bright,
Which toss’d in the breeze with a play of light;
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay!

There were steps that flew o’er the cowslip’s head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality!
Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass’d?
Ye have look’d on death since ye met me last!

I know whence the shadow comes o’er you now--
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to earth’s embrace--
She hath taken the fairest of beauty’s race,
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown:
They are gone from amongst you in silence down!

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair,
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!
But I know of a land where there falls no blight--
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light!
Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer--farewell, farewell!

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne--
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore--
Ye are mark’d by care, ye are mine no more;
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not Death’s. Fare ye well, farewell!

[256] Originally published in the _New Monthly Magazine_.

[“‘The Voice of Spring,’ perhaps the best known and best loved of all Mrs Hemans’ lyrics, was written early in the year 1823; and is thus alluded to in a letter to a friend, who had lately suffered a severe and sudden bereavement:--‘The Voice of Spring’ expresses some peculiar feelings of my own. Although my life has yet been unvisited by any affliction so deeply impressive, in all its circumstances, as the one you have been called upon to sustain; yet I cannot but feel every year, with the return of the violet, how much the shadows of my mind have deepened since its last appearance; and to me the spring, with all its joy and beauty, is generally a time of thoughtfulness rather than mirth. I think the most delightful poetry I know upon the subject of this season, is contained in the works of Tieck, a German poet, with whom you are perhaps acquainted; but the feelings he expresses are of a very different character from those I have described to you, seeming all to proceed from an overflowing sense of life and joy.’

“This indefinable feeling of languor and depression produced by the influence of spring, will be well understood by many a gentle heart. Never do the

‘Fond strange yearnings from the soul’s deep cell
Gush for the faces we no more shall see,’

with such uncontrollable power, as when all external nature breathes of life and gladness. Amidst all the bright and joyous things around us, we are haunted with images of death and the grave. The force of contrast, not less strong than that of analogy, is unceasingly reminding us of the great gulf that divides us from those who are now ‘gone down in silence.’ Some unforgotten voice is ever whispering--‘And I too in Arcadia!’ We remember how we were wont to rejoice in the soft air and pleasant sunshine; and these things can charm us no longer, ‘because _they_ are not.’ The farewell sadness of autumn, on the contrary--its falling leaves, and universal imagery of decay, by bringing more home to us the sense of our own mortality, identifies us more closely with those who are gone before, and the veil of separation becomes, as it were, more transparent. We are impressed with a more pervading conviction that ‘we shall go to them;’ while, in spring, every thing seems mournfully to echo, ‘they will not return to us!’

“These peculiar associations may be traced in many of Mrs Hemans’ writings, deepening with the influence of years and of sorrows, and more particularly developed in the poem called ‘Breathings of Spring.’ And when it is remembered that it was at this season her own earthly course was finished, the following passage from a letter, written in the month of May, some years after the one last quoted, cannot be read without emotion:--‘Poor A. H. is to be buried to-morrow. With the bright sunshine laughing around, it seems more sad to think of; yet, if I could choose when I would wish to die, it should be in spring--the influence of that season is so strangely depressing to my heart and frame.’”--_Memoir_, p. 66-68.

“‘The Voice of Spring,’ one of the first of what may be called Mrs Hemans’ fanciful lyrics, which presently became as familiar as the music of some popular composer when brought to our doors by wandering minstrels.”--Chorley’s _Memorials_, vol. i. p. 113.

“But it is time Mrs Hemans’ poetry were allowed to speak for itself; in making our extracts from it, we have really been as much puzzled as a child gathering flowers in a lovely garden--now attracted by a rose--straightway allured by a lily--now tempted by a stately tulip--and again unsettled by a breathing violet, or ‘well-attired woodbine.’ We do think, however, that the ‘Voice of Spring’ is the pride of Mrs H.’s parterre--the rose of her poetry.”--(A. A. Watts.)--_Literary Magnet_, 1826.]

ELYSIUM.

[“In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes--that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence--were banished to the infernal Regions.”--Chateaubriand, _Génie du Christianisme_.]

Fair wert thou in the dreams
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams,
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers,
Where, as they pass’d, bright hours
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

Fair wert thou, with the light
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast
From purple skies ne’er deep’ning into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last
Of glory, fading fast
Along the mountains!--but _thy_ golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades,
A swell of deep Æolian sound went by
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer’s breezy sigh,
And young leaves trembling to the wind’s light breath,
Which ne’er had touch’d them with a hue of death!

And the transparent sky
Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain
Of harps that midst the woods made harmony,
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain
With dreams and yearnings vain,
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth
From the bewildering music of the earth.

And who, with silent tread,
Moved o’er the plains of waving asphodel?
Call’d from the dim procession of the dead,
Who midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell,
And listen to the swell
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise,
With the bright wine, at nations’ feasts went round!
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays
Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound,
And in all regions found
Their echoes midst the mountains!--and become
In man’s deep heart as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought!
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied--
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought
The soul’s far birthplace--but without a guide!
Sages and seers, who died,
And left the world their high mysterious dreams,
born midst the olive woods by Grecian streams.

But the most _loved_ are they
Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice,
In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way;
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,
And gentle hearts rejoice
Around their steps; till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.

And these--of whose abode,
Midst her green valleys, earth retain’d no trace,
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,
A shade of sadness on some kindred face,
A dim and vacant place
In some sweet home;--thou hadst no wreaths for _these_,
Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!

The peasant at his door
Might sink to die when vintage-feasts were spread,
And songs on every wind! From _thy_ bright shore
No lovelier vision floated round his head--
Thou wert for nobler dead!
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell,
And sigh’d to bid the festal sun farewell!

The slave, whose very tears
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years,
As embers in a burial-urn compress’d;
_He_ might not be thy guest!
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o’er _his_ path, and whisper’d “Liberty!”

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay,
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before the mother lay,
E’en so to pass away,
With its bright smile!--Elysium! what wert _thou_
To her, who wept o’er that young slumb’rer’s brow?

Thou hadst no home, green land!
For the fair creature from her bosom gone,
With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand,
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,
Which in its clear eye shone
Like spring’s first wakening! but that light was past--
Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast?

Not where _thy_ soft winds play’d,
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!
Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade!
From thee no voice came o’er the gloomy deep,
And bade man cease to weep!
Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove,
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love![257]

[257] The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs Hemans some years after its first publication, and, though done so perhaps to advantage, one verse was omitted. As originally written, the two following stanzas concluded the piece:--

For the most loved are they
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice,
In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way;
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,
And gentle hearts rejoice
Around their steps; till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.

And the world knows not then,
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled!
Yet these are they, who on the souls of men
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread,
The long-remember’d dead!
But not with thee might aught save glory dwell--
Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel!

THE FUNERAL GENIUS,

AN ANCIENT STATUE.

“Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sur sa tête, et le dos appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exprimer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables.”--Visconti, _Description des Antiques du Musée Royal_.

Thou shouldst be look’d on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer air,
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls--
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare!
And thou!--thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.

Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead
Were crown’d of old, with pale spring-flowers like these:
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze:
And the pine-boughs o’ershadow thee with gloom,
Which of the grove seems breathing--not the tomb.

_They_ fear’d not death, whose calm and gracious thought
Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee!
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head against the forest tree,
As that of one, by music’s dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lull’d to deep repose.

They fear’d not death!--yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much
Of tender beauty as thy features wear?
Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes
So still a night, a night of summer, lies!

Had they seen aught like thee? Did some fair boy
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest?
--His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy,
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress’d;
And his eye veil’d so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?

Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler’s power
Came by a look so tranquilly divine!
--Let him who _thus_ hath seen the lovely part,
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart.

But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe,
Or love, or terror, in the days of old,
That men pour’d out their gladd’ning spirit’s flow,
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold,
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king,
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid
Far more than we--for loftier faith is ours!
_Their_ gems were lost in ashes--yet they made
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers,
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array’d,
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.

Is it for _us_ a darker gloom to shed
O’er its dim precincts?--do we not intrust
But for a time its chambers with our dead,
And strew immortal seed upon the dust?
Why should _we_ dwell on that which lies beneath,
When living light hath touch’d the brow of death?

THE TOMBS OF PLATÆA.

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

And there they sleep!--the men who stood
In arms before th’ exulting sun,
And bathed their spears in Persian blood,
And taught the earth how freedom might be won.

They sleep!--th’ Olympic wreaths are dead,
Th’ Athenian lyres are hush’d and gone;
The Dorian voice of song is fled--
Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on.

They sleep--and seems not all around
As hallow’d unto glory’s tomb?
Silence is on the battle-ground,
The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom.

And stars are watching on their height,
But dimly seen through mist and cloud;
And still and solemn is the light
Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud.

And thou, pale Night-queen! here thy beams
Are not as those the shepherd loves,
Nor look they down on shining streams,
By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves.

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep,
In shadowy quiet, midst its vines;
No temple gleaming from the steep,
Midst the gray olives or the mountain pines:

But o’er a dim and boundless waste,
Thy rays, e’en like a tomb-lamp’s, brood,
Where man’s departed steps are traced
But by his dust, amidst the solitude.

And be it thus!--What slave shall tread
O’er freedom’s ancient battle-plains?
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead
When their bright Land sits weeping o’er her chains.

Here, where the Persian clarion rung,
And where the Spartan sword flash’d high,
And where the pæan strains were sung,
From year to year swell’d on by liberty;

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard,
Until the bonds of Greece be riven,
Save of the leader’s charging-word,
Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven!

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave!
No vines festoon your lonely tree,[258]
No harvest o’er your war-field wave,
Till rushing winds proclaim--The land is free!

[258] A single tree appears in Mr Williams’ impressive picture.

THE VIEW FROM CASTRI.

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

There have been bright and glorious pageants here,
Where now gray stones and moss-grown columns lie;
There have been words, which earth grew pale to hear,
Breathed from the cavern’s misty chambers nigh:
There have been voices through the sunny sky,
And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes sending,
And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody
With incense-clouds around the temple blending,
And throngs with laurel-boughs before the altar bending.

There have been treasures of the seas and isles
Brought to the Day-god’s now-forsaken throne;
Thunders have peal’d along the rock-defiles,
When the far-echoing battle-horn made known
That foes were on their way! The deep wind’s moan
Hath chill’d th’ invader’s heart with secret fear;
And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone,
Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce career,
From his bold hand have struck the banner and the spear.

The shrine hath sunk!--but thou unchanged art there!
Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams!
Unchanged--and rising through the radiant air,
With thy dark waving pines, and flashing streams,
And all thy founts of song! Their bright course teems
With inspiration yet; and each dim haze,
Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems
As with its mantle veiling from our gaze
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days!

Away, vain fantasies!--doth less of power
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest,
Though, in deep stillness, now the ruin’s flower
Wave o’er the pillars mouldering on thy breast?
--Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy crest!
Let the great rocks their solitude regain!
No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest
With their full chords:--but silent be the strain!
Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th’ Eternal’s reign![259]

[259] This, with the preceding, and several of the following pieces, first appeared in the _Edinburgh Magazine_.

THE FESTAL HOUR.

When are the lessons given
That shake the startled earth? When wakes the foe
While the friend sleeps? When falls the traitor’s blow?
When are proud sceptres riven,
High hopes o’erthrown?--It is when lands rejoice,
When cities blaze and lift th’ exulting voice,
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven!

Fear ye the festal hour!
When mirth o’erflows, then tremble!--’Twas a night
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light,
When through the regal bower
The trumpet peal’d ere yet the song was done,
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon,
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power.

The marble shrines were crown’d:
Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky,
And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody,
And censers waved around;
And lyres were strung and bright libations pour’d!
When through the streets flash’d out the avenging sword,
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound![260]

Through Rome a triumph pass’d.
Rich in her Sun-god’s mantling beams went by
That long array of glorious pageantry,
With shout and trumpet-blast.
An empire’s gems their starry splendour shed
O’er the proud march; a king in chains was led;
A stately victor, crown’d and robed, came last.[261]

And many a Dryad’s bower
Had lent the laurels which, in waving play,
Stirr’d the warm air, and glisten’d round his way
As a quick-flashing shower.
--O’er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung,
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung--
Woe for the dead!--the father’s broken flower!

A sound of lyre and song,
In the still night, went floating o’er the Nile,
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile,
Swept with that voice along;
And lamps were shining o’er the red wine’s foam
Where a chief revell’d in a monarch’s dome,
And fresh rose-garlands deck’d a glittering throng.

’Twas Antony that bade
The joyous chords ring out! But strains arose
Of wilder omen at the banquet’s close!
Sounds, by no mortal made,[262]
Shook Alexandria through her streets that night,
And pass’d--and with another sunset’s light,
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid.

Bright midst its vineyards lay
The fair Campanian city,[263] with its towers
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers,
Clear in the golden day;
Joy was around it as the glowing sky,
And crowds had fill’d its halls of revelry,
And all the sunny air was music’s way.

A cloud came o’er the face
Of Italy’s rich heaven!--its crystal blue
Was changed, and deepen’d to a wrathful hue
Of night, o’ershadowing space
As with the wings of death!--in all his power
Vesuvius woke, and hurl’d the burning shower,
And who could tell the buried city’s place?

Such things have been of yore,
In the gay regions where the citrons blow,
And purple summers all their sleepy glow
On the grape-clusters pour;
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving,
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving,
As with a flow of light, their southern shore.

Turn we to other climes!--
Far in the Druid isle a feast was spread,
Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead;[264]
And ancient battle-rhymes
Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed
And lofty songs of Britain’s elder time;--

But ere the giant-fane
Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even,
Hush’d were the bards, and in the face of heaven,
O’er that old burial-plain,
Flash’d the keen Saxon dagger!--blood was streaming
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming,
And Britain’s hearths were heap’d that night in vain--

For they return’d no more!
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart,
In that fierce banquet’s mirth to bear their part:
And on the rushy floor,
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls,
The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls;
But not for them--they slept--their feast was o’er!

Fear ye the festal hour!
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o’erflows!
Tame down the swelling heart! The bridal rose,
And the rich myrtle’s flower,
Have veil’d the sword! Red wines have sparkled fast
From venom’d goblets, and soft breezes pass’d
With fatal perfume through the revel’s bower.

Twine the young glowing wreath!
But pour not all your spirit in the song,
Which through the sky’s deep azure floats along
Like summer’s quickening breath!
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth:
Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth,
So darkly press’d and girdled in by death!

[“‘The Festal Hour’ certainly appears to us to be one of the noblest, regular, and classical odes in the English language--happy in the general idea, and rich in imagery and illustration.”--Dr Morehead _in Constable’s Magazine_, _Sept. 1823_.]

[260] The sword of Harmodius.

[261] Paulus Æmilius, one of whose sons died a few days before, and another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest of Macedon, when Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains.

[262] See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, the night before Antony’s death.

[263] Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inhabitants were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes which overwhelmed the city descended.

[264] Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king; and by others mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of British chiefs here alluded to.

SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.

[“In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold of Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested that this prince repeatedly declared he ‘would trample the audacious rustics under his feet;’ and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for the purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to death.

“The 15th October 1315 dawned. The sun darted its first rays on the shields and armour of the advancing host; and this being the first army ever known to have attempted the frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line with various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cavalry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space between the mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on the eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled down heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. The confederates on the mountain, perceiving the impression made by this attack, rushed down in close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered column. With massy clubs they dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and dealt their blows and thrusts with long pikes. The narrowness of the defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having injured the road, the horses were impeded in all their motions; many leaped into the lake; all were startled; and at last the whole column gave way, and fell suddenly back on the infantry; and these last, as the nature of the country did not allow them to open their files, were run over by the fugitives, and many of them trampled to death. A general rout ensued, and Duke Leopold was with much difficulty rescued by a peasant, who led him to Winterthur, where the historian of the times saw him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed.”--Planta’s _History of the Helvetic Confederacy_.]

The wine-month[265] shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes clustering hung,
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer’s clime,
Than the vintage music, rung--
A sound through vaulted cave,
A sound through echoing glen,
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave;
--’Twas the tread of steel-girt men.

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far,
Midst the ancient rocks was blown,
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war
With a thousand of their own.
And through the forest-glooms
Flash’d helmets to the day;
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes,
Like the larch-boughs in their play.

In Hasli’s[266] wilds there was gleaming steel
As the host of the Austrian pass’d;
And the Schreckhorn’s[267] rocks, with a savage peal,
Made mirth of his clarion’s blast.
Up midst the Righi snows
The stormy march was heard,
With the charger’s tramp, whence fire-sparks rose,
And the leader’s gathering-word.

But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait,
With blazon’d streamers and lances tall,
Moved onwards in princely state.
They came with heavy chains
For the race despised so long--
But amidst his Alp-domains,
The herdsman’s arm is strong!

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn
When they enter’d the rock-defile,
And shrill as a joyous hunter’s horn
Their bugles rang the while.
But on the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood,
There was stillness as of night,
When storms at distance brood.

There was stillness as of deep, dead night,
And a pause--but not of fear,
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.
On wound those columns bright
Between the lake and wood,
But they look’d not to the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood.

The pass was fill’d with their serried power,
All helm’d and mail-array’d,
And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower
In the rustling forest-shade.
There were prince and crested knight,
Hemm’d in by cliff and flood,
When a shout arose from the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood.

And the mighty rocks came bounding down
Their startled foes among,
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown--
Oh! the herdsman’s arm is strong!--
They came like lauwine[268] hurl’d
From Alp to Alp in play,
When the echoes shout through the snowy world,
And the pines are borne away.

The fir-woods crash’d on the mountain-side,
And the Switzers rush’d from high,
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride
Of the Austrian chivalry:
Like hunters of the deer,
They storm’d the narrow dell;
And first in the shock, with Uri’s spear,
Was the arm of William Tell.[269]

There was tumult in the crowded strait,
And a cry of wild dismay;
And many a warrior met his fate
From a peasant’s hand that day!
And the Empire’s banner then
From its place of waving free,
Went down before the shepherd-men,
The men of the Forest-Sea.

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake
The cuirass and the shield,
And the war-horse dash’d to the reddening lake
From the reapers of the field!
The field--but not of sheaves--
Proud crests and pennons lay,
Strewn o’er it thick as the birch-wood leaves
In the autumn tempest’s way.

Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view’d
When the Austrian turn’d to fly,
And the brave, in the trampling multitude,
Had a fearful death to die!
And the leader of the war
At eve unhelm’d was seen,
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar,
And a pale and troubled mien.

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills
Went back from the battle-toil,
To their cabin homes midst the deep-green hills,
All burden’d with royal spoil.
There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night,
When children sprang to greet their sires
From the wild Morgarten fight

[265] _Wine-month_, the German name for October.

[266] Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne.

[267] Schreckhorn, the _peak of terror_, a mountain in the canton of Berne.

[268] _Lauwine_, the Swiss name for the avalanche.

[269] William Tell’s name is particularly mentioned amongst the confederates at Morgarten.

ODE ON THE DEFEAT OF KING SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL, AND HIS ARMY, IN AFRICA.

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF HERRERA.