Ringing with echoes of Italian song:
Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong,
And all the pleasant place is like a home.
Hark, on the right with full piano tone 5
Old Dante’s voice encircles all the air:
Hark yet again, like flute-tones mingling rare,
Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca’s moan.
Pass thou the lintel freely; without fear
Feast on the music. I do better know thee, 10
Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe me
Will wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dear
That element whence thou must draw thy life--
An English maiden, and an English wife.
_Arthur Henry Hallam._
CCIII
_THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB._
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 5
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown:
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 10
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 15
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf,
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown: 20
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
_Lord Byron._
CCIV
_THRASYMENE._
Is this the spot where Rome’s eternal foe
Into his snares the mighty legions drew,
Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few,
A remnant scarcely reached her gates of woe?
Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow, 5
That, from the gushing wounds of thousands, grew
So fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hue
Rushed on the bosom of the lake below?
The mountains that gave back the battle-cry
Are silent now;--perchance yon hillocks green 10
Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie!
Heaven never gladdened a more peaceful scene;
Never left softer breeze a fairer sky
To sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene.
_Charles Strong._
CCV
_THE BATTLE OF NASEBY._
BY OBADIAH
BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT
IN IRETON’S REGIMENT.
Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?
Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 5
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,
Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 9
That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.
Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The General rode along us to form us to the fight,
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout, 15
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right.
And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging line!
For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!
For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! 20
The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;
They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks;
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.
They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! 25
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast,
O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!
Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last.
Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:
Hark! hark!--What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? 30
Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys.
Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.
Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 35
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.
Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar:
And he--he turns, he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. 40
Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,
First give another stab to make your search secure,
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.
Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were
gay and bold, 45
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;
And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.
Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,
And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, 50
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?
Down, down, for ever down with the Mitre and the Crown,
With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope;
There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham’s Stalls: 55
The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.
And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills,
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword;
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear
What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word. 60
_Lord Macaulay._
CCVI
_CAVALIER SONG._
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
My true love has mounted his steed and away,
Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down;
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear, 5
He has placed the steel-cap o’er his long-flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,--
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause; 10
His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,--
God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town, 15
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;
There’s Erin’s high Ormond and Scotland’s Montrose!
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,
With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown? 20
Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!
Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown
In a pledge to Fair England, her Church, and her Crown.
_Sir Walter Scott._
CCVII
_THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC._
Of Nelson and the North
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 5
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat 10
Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime;
As they drifted on their path, 15
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene; 20
And her van the fleeter rushed
O’er the deadly space between.
‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships, 25
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane 30
To our cheering sent us back;--
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--
Then ceased--and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or, in conflagration pale, 35
Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o’er the wave:
‘Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save: 40
So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England’s feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.’ 45
Then Denmark blessed our chief
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day; 50
While the sun looked smiling bright
O’er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
Now joy, Old England, raise 55
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities’ blaze,
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep 60
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride
Once so faithful and so true, 65
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou:
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid’s song condoles, 70
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
_Thomas Campbell._
CCVIII
_HOHENLINDEN._
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight, 5
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 10
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven 15
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 20
’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 25
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet; 30
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.
_Thomas Campbell._
CCIX
_ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC._
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee,
And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest child of liberty.
She was a maiden City, bright and free; 5
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And when she took unto herself a mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,-- 10
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great has passed away.
_William Wordsworth._
CCX
_COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802._
Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West,
Star of my country!--on the horizon’s brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England’s bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest, 5
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there it lies. 10
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory! I with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.
_William Wordsworth._
CCXI
_NOVEMBER, 1806._
Another year!--another deadly blow!
Another mighty empire overthrown!
And we are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dare to struggle with the foe.
’Tis well! from this day forward we shall know 5
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought;
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!
We shall exult, if they who rule the land 10
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.
_William Wordsworth._
CCXII
_THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE._
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast.
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 10
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,
And we far away on the billow! 20
Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,
And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done, 25
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 30
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone--
But we left him alone with his glory.
_Charles Wolfe._
CCXIII
_ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE._
’Tis done--but yesterday a King!
And armed with Kings to strive--
And now thou art a nameless thing:
So abject--yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 5
Who strewed our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive?
Since he, miscalled the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fall’n so far.
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind 10
Who bowed so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
Thou taught’st the rest to see.
With might unquestioned,--power to save,--
Thine only gift hath been the grave, 15
To those that worshipped thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition’s less than littleness!
Thanks for that lesson--it will teach
To after-warriors more 20
Than high Philosophy can preach,
And vainly preached before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks, never to unite again,
That led them to adore 25
Those Pagod things of sabre sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.
The triumph, and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife--
The earthquake voice of Victory, 30
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seemed made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife--
All quelled!--Dark Spirit! what must be 35
The madness of thy memory!
The Desolator desolate!
The Victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others’ fate
A suppliant for his own! 40
Is it some yet imperial hope,
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a prince--or live a slave--
Thy choice is most ignobly brave! 45
He who of old would rend the oak,
Dreamed not of the rebound:
Chained by the trunk he vainly broke--
Alone--how looked he round?
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 50
An equal deed hast done at length,
And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest prowlers’ prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!
The Roman, when his burning heart 55
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger--dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home--
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 60
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandoned power.
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell, 65
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well: 70
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot’s shrine, nor despot’s throne.
But thou--from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung--
Too late thou leav’st the high command 75
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart,
To see thine own unstrung;
To think that God’s fair world hath been 80
The footstool of a thing so mean!
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own!
And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb,
And thanked him for a throne! 85
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear
In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne’er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind! 90
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
Nor written thus in vain--
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain:
If thou hadst died as honour dies, 95
Some new Napoleon might arise,
To shame the world again--
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?
Weighed in the balance, hero dust 100
Is vile as vulgar clay:
Thy scales, Mortality, are just
To all that pass away:
But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate, 105
To dazzle and dismay:
Nor deemed Contempt could thus make mirth
Of these, the conquerors of the earth.
And she, proud Austria’s mournful flower,
Thy still imperial bride, 110
How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side?
Must she too bend, must she too share
Thy late repentance, long despair,
Thou throneless Homicide? 115
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem;
’Tis worth thy vanished diadem!
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile-- 120
It ne’er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all-idle hand,
In loitering mood upon the sand,
That Earth is now as free,
That Corinth’s pedagogue hath now 125
Transferred his by-word to thy brow.
Thou Timour! in his captive’s cage--
What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prisoned rage?
But one--‘The world _was_ mine!’ 130
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit poured so widely forth--
So long obeyed--so little worth! 135
Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!
Foredoomed by God--by man accurst, 140
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend’s arch-mock;
He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!
_Lord Byron._
CCXIV
_SONG._
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND, 1814.
O dread was the time, and more dreadful the omen,
When the brave on Marengo lay slaughtered in vain,
And beholding broad Europe bowed down by her foemen,
Pitt closed in his anguish the map of her reign!
Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit 5
To take for his country the safety of shame;
O then in her triumph remember his merit,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.
Round the husbandman’s head, while he traces the furrow,
The mists of the winter may mingle with rain, 10
He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,
And sigh while he fears he has sowed it in vain;
He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness,
But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim;
And their jubilee-shout shall be softened with sadness, 15
While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.
Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In foils for our Country preserved by his care,
Though he died ere one ray o’er the nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt and despair; 20
The storms he endured in our Britain’s December,
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o’ercame,
For her glory’s rich harvest shall Britain remember
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.
Nor forget this gray head, who, all dark in affliction, 25
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
The shout of his people applauding his son;
By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster,
By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! 30
With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of his Master,
Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name.
Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,
The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid,
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure, 35
The wisdom that planned, and the zeal that obeyed!
Fill Wellington’s cup till it beam like his glory,
Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and Græme,
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story,
And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame. 40
_Sir Walter Scott._
CCXV
_TO THE MEMORY OF PIETRO D’ALESSANDRO_,
SECRETARY TO THE PROVINCIAL GOVERNMENT OF SICILY IN 1848, WHO DIED AN
EXILE AT MALTA IN JANUARY 1855.
Beside the covered grave
Linger the exiles, though their task is done.
Yes, brethren; from your band one more is gone,
A good man and a brave.
Scanty the rites, and train; 5
How many’ of all the storied marbles, set
In all thy churches, City of La Valette,
Hide nobler heart and brain?
Ah! had his soul been cold,
Tempered to make a sycophant or spy, 10
To love hard truth less than an easy lie,
His country less than gold,--
Then, not the spirit’s strife,
Nor sickening pangs at sight of conquering crime,
Nor anxious watching of an evil time, 15
Had worn his chords of life:
Nor here, nor thus with tears
Untimely shed, but there whence o’er the sea
The great Volcano looks, his rest might be,
The close of prosperous years. 20
No! Different hearts are bribed;
And therefore, in his cause’s sad eclipse,
Here died he, with ‘Palermo’ on his lips,
A poor man, and proscribed.
Wrecked all thy hopes, O friend,-- 25
Hopes for thyself, thine Italy, thine own,--
High gifts defeated of their due renown,--
Long toil--and this the end!
The end? not ours to scan:
Yet grieve not, children, for your father’s worth; 30
Oh! never wish that in his native earth
He lay, a baser man.
What to the dead avail
The chance success, the blundering praise of fame?
Oh! rather trust, somewhere the noble aim 35
Is crowned, though here it fail.
Kind, generous, true wert thou:
This meed at least to goodness must belong,
That such it was. Farewell; the world’s great wrong
Is righted for thee now. 40
Rest in thy foreign grave,
Sicilian! whom our English hearts have loved,--
Italian! such as Dante had approved,--
An exile--not a slave!
_Henry Lushington._
CCXVI
_HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI._