Part III. 61

O’CONNOR’S CHILD; OR, THE “FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING” 73

THEODRIC; A DOMESTIC TALE 83

LOCHIEL’S WARNING 101

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS—

Battle of the Baltic 109

Ye Mariners of England: a Naval Ode 112

To the Rainbow 114

The Last Man 116

Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble, Esq., composed for a

Public Meeting, held June, 1817 119

A Dream 122

Lines Written at the Request of the Highland Society in

London, when met to Commemorate the 21st of March,

the Day of Victory in Egypt 125

Stanzas to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots latest Killed

in Resisting the Regency and the Duke of Angoulême 127

Song of the Greeks 129

Ode to Winter 131

Lines Spoken by Mr. * * *, at Drury Lane Theatre, on the

First Opening of the House after the death of the

Princess Charlotte, 1817 133

Lines on the Grave of a Suicide 135

The Turkish Lady 136

The Wounded Hussar 138

Lines Inscribed on the Monument lately finished by Mr.

Chantrey, which has been Erected by the Widow of

Admiral Sir G. Campbell, K.C.B., to the Memory of

her Husband 139

The Brave Roland 140

The Spectre Boat; a Ballad 142

The Lover to his Mistress on her Birth-day 144

Hohenlinden 145

Glenara 147

Lines on Receiving a Seal with the Campbell Crest, from K.

M—, before her Marriage 149

Gilderoy 151

Adelgitha 153

Absence 154

The Ritter Bann 155

The Harper 161

Song—To the Evening Star 162

Song—“Men of England” 163

The Maid’s Remonstrance 164

Song—“Drink ye to her” 165

Song—“When Napoleon was flying” 166

The Beech-Tree’s Petition 167

Song—“Earl March” 168

Love and Madness; an Elegy, written in 1795 169

Song—“Oh how hard it is to find” 172

Stanzas on the Threatened Invasion, 1803 173

Exile of Erin 174

Lord Ullin’s Daughter 176

Ode to the Memory of Burns 178

The Soldier’s Dream 181

Lines Written on Visiting a Scene in Argyleshire 182

Spanish Patriot’s Song 184

Verses on Marie Antoinette 186

Dirge of Wallace 188

Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore; three Celebrated Scottish

Beauties 190

The Death-Boat of Heligoland 192

Song—“When Love came first to Earth” 194

Lines on the Departure of Emigrants for New South Wales 195

Farewell to Love 199

Lines on a Picture of a Girl in the Attitude of Prayer, by

the artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney 200

Stanzas on the Battle of Navarino 202

Lines on Leaving a Scene in Bavaria 204

Stanzas to Painting 209

Drinking-Song of Munich 212

Lines on Revisiting a Scottish River 213

Lines on Revisiting Cathcart 215

The “Name Unknown;” in imitation of Klopstock 216

Song—“Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers” 217

Hallowed Ground 218

Caroline—Part I. 221

Caroline—Part II.—To the Evening Star 223

Field Flowers 225

Lines on the View from St Leonard’s 226

Lines on Poland 230

Lines on the Camp Hill, near Hastings 235

Lines written in a Blank Leaf of La Perouse’s Voyages 236

The Power of Russia 238

Reullura 241

Ode to the Germans 247

Florine 249

TRANSLATIONS—

Song of Hybrias the Cretan 253

Fragment from the Greek of Alcman 254

Martial Elegy from the Greek of Tyrtæus 255

Specimens of Translation from “Medea” 257

Speech of the Chorus in the same Tragedy, to dissuade Medea

from her Purpose of Putting her Children to Death, and

Flying for Protection to Athens 258

NOTES TO—

The Pleasures of Hope 265

Gertrude of Wyoming 269

O’Connor’s Child 285

Theodric 291

Lochiel 293

PREFATORY MEMOIR.

Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow, July 27, 1777. He was of good

family, his father being the youngest son of a Highland laird, Campbell

of Kirnan, who could trace his descent from Gilespie le Camile, first

Norman lord of Lochawe. As was (and is) usual with the younger sons

of Scottish families of rank, Campbell’s father was destined for a

commercial career. He commenced it in Virginia, where he entered into

partnership with a kinsman, and returning with him to Scotland, carried

on the business in Glasgow, till the wars between Great Britain and her

American Colonies for a time seriously injured British commerce. After

incurring severe losses he at length gave up business altogether, and

retired into private life with diminished means and a large family.

Thomas, the poet, was the youngest of eleven children, and was born

after his father had retired. At eight years of age he was sent to the

Grammar School of Glasgow, and became the pupil of David Alison, who

soon detected the infant genius of his pupil. The boy worked hard for

his years, but his health was delicate, and, like Walter Scott, he had

to be sent away for the benefit of country air. Amidst the fields and

green lanes he regained health and strength, and returning to his studies

made rapid progress, especially in Greek. At twelve years old, he gained

prizes for his translations from the Greek poets.

In 1793 Campbell commenced the study of the law in the office of his

relative Mr. Alexander Campbell, a Writer to the Signet, of Glasgow;

but he soon abandoned it, and again devoted himself to more congenial

pursuits. About this time his _Lines on Marie Antoinette_ appeared in the

poet’s corner of a Glasgow paper; he had already won a prize for his poem

_On Description_ from the University.

In 1795 the failure of a Chancery suit still further reduced his father’s

income, and Campbell, eager to reduce the family expenses, sought and

obtained a tutorship in the family of a Mrs. Campbell of Sunipol, in the

Hebrides, for the summer months. The romantic beauty of his new home

strongly impressed the youthful poet, and it was whilst wandering on the

wild lonely shores of Mull, that the subject of his celebrated poem the

_Pleasures of Hope_ was suggested to him by his friend Mr. Hamilton Paul.

A rock on the isle, on which he often sat and mused, obtained and still

keeps the name of the “Poet’s Seat.”

In the autumn Campbell returned to his studies at the University, and

finally closed his academic career by winning two prizes—one for the

_Choephorcæ_ of Aristophanes, and the other for the _Chorus in the Medea_

of Euripides.

After quitting the University, he again became a tutor—this time in the

family of General Napier, who was greatly interested in the gifted young

man beneath his roof. It was during this residence in Argyleshire that he

wrote _Love and Madness_, and some other poems.

In 1798 the poet proceeded to Edinburgh, determined to try his fortune in

the Scottish metropolis. He had an introduction to Dr. Robert Anderson,

who, struck with his ability, recommended him to Mr. Mundell, the

publisher. Mr. Mundell at once gave him literary work, his first task

being to compile an abridgment of Bryan Edward’s _West Indies_. He also

obtained pupils, and thus managed to secure a comfortable livelihood.

But by degrees the love of poetry grew too strong for this routine of

industry, and he gradually devoted himself to the composition of the

_Pleasures of Hope_. Campbell’s life at this time must have been a very

happy one. He was enraptured with his task, and he had many and kind

friends in Edinburgh—amongst them was Francis (afterwards Lord) Jeffrey.

To his aunt Mrs. Campbell, and to his beautiful cousin Margaret, who

resided in Edinburgh, he used to read his verses, and was cheered and

encouraged by their applause.

When the poem was finished, Dr. Anderson took it to Mr. Mundell, who,

after some consideration, offered the poet £60 for it, an offer which was

accepted.

The poem appeared, and Campbell at once became famous. Everywhere it was

read and admired, and it secured to the Author a permanent reputation

at the age of twenty-one. The _Pleasures of Hope_ went through four

editions in a year. In the second edition several new and remarkably fine

passages were introduced.

In 1800 Campbell left Scotland in order to visit Germany. He landed at

Hamburg; and proceeded, after a short residence there, to Ratisbon,

which he reached only three days before the French took it, and was,

consequently, obliged to seek a refuge with the monks of the Benedictine

College; from the walls of which he beheld a cavalry charge made by the

German horse on the French under Grenier. The scenes of war through

which it was now his fate to pass, no doubt suggested his fine lyric of

_Hohenlinden_, though he was not a spectator of the fight (Dr. Beattie

tells us)—it occurred after he had left the scene of war.

The times were now so troubled that Campbell hastened homeward, the

moment he could obtain his passports. At Hamburg, where he remained for

a while, he wrote the _Exile of Erin_. From Hamburg he proceeded to

Altona, and thence to England. During his absence he had sent several

small poems to the _Morning Chronicle_, and on his return he was received

and welcomed cordially by its editor, Mr. Perry, who introduced him to

the best literary society in London. But from the natural enjoyment of

his popularity he was called by the tidings of his father’s death, and

he hurried at once to Edinburgh. Here he found that an absurd charge

of treason had been made against him, which, however, his own prompt

and manly demand of an investigation of his conduct at once quashed.

Moreover, his trunk, which had been seized on its way homewards, was

examined, and amongst his papers was found the glorious national lyric,

_Ye Mariners of England_, which he had written at Altona. The patriotic

feeling displayed in it at once assured the Sheriff of Edinburgh of the

poet’s innocence of the crime with which he was charged, and the affair

ended in the young poet’s character being entirely cleared.

From the period of his father’s death it became Campbell’s duty to

provide in a great measure for his widowed mother and his sister, and he

worked bravely and patiently for them at literary task-work.

In 1801 he visited London at Lord Minto’s invitation, and passed a season

of great gaiety in the midst of the literary celebrities of England. On

his return to Edinburgh he published _Lochiel_, and _Hohenlinden_, and

brought out the seventh edition of the _Pleasures of Hope_.

In 1802 Campbell married his cousin, Miss Matilda Sinclair, and went

shortly afterwards to reside at Sydenham, then a lovely and rather

aristocratic place,—where his memory was long cherished, and his dwelling

is even now pointed out to strangers.

Here he supported by his literary labour his mother, his wife,

and children; and was occupied and happy. He contributed to the

_Philosophical Magazine_, the _Star_ paper, and planned his _Specimens of

the British Poets_.

In 1805 Campbell received a pension of £200 from the Crown, which must

have greatly relieved the anxieties of a husband and father dependent

on so precarious a profession as literature. But he retained only half

for himself; the remainder he divided between his mother and sister; an

act of generosity which afterwards, we are told, led to his receiving a

handsome legacy of nearly £5,000 from a Highland cousin.

In 1809 _Gertrude of Wyoming_, _Lord Ullin’s Daughter_, and _The Battle

of the Baltic_ were published. Several prose works also appeared from

Campbell’s pen; in 1807, the _Annals of Great Britain from the Accession

of George III. to the Peace of Amiens_, was published anonymously in

Edinburgh. He wrote also a _Life of Petrarch_ in 1841, and edited

numerous works. In 1818, the long-planned _Specimens of the British

Poets_ was produced in London. After this publication, Campbell delivered

lectures at the Surrey Institution on English Poetry, and the public

pronounced him to be as elegant a critic as he was a fine poet. In a

pecuniary sense, everything he did prospered.

In 1824 _Theodric_ was published, which, however, obtained small favour

with the public. In fact a new style of poetry had superseded that of the

day when the _Pleasures of Hope_ won golden opinions; Scott had since

charmed the ear with his _Lay_ and his _Lady of the Lake_, and had been

in turn supplanted by the fiery muse of Byron, and—though not then fully

appreciated—the matchless melody and classic charm of Shelley. After the

productions of these great poets, the calm and unimpassioned _Theodric_

fell flat on the public ear; in fact there is no comparison between it

and the _Pleasures of Hope_.

As a lyric poet, Campbell, however, continued unrivalled, and would have

held his own place in our literature if he had never written more than

the _Mariners of England_ and _Hohenlinden_. Nor did the _Pleasures

of Hope_ lose its hold on public favour; it has retained it to this

day, except in a certain clique of critics. There are passages in it

which will ever have a strong hold on our sympathies; and which will be

remembered when the half intelligible utterances of our more modern times

shall only excite wonder and amusement.

In 1827 one of Campbell’s early day-dreams, that of being Lord Rector

of his own University, was gratified. He was chosen, though no less a

rival than Sir Walter Scott was in the field, and he filled the position

so well, and so much to the benefit of the University, that he was

re-elected the two following years.

In 1820 Colbourne offered him the editorship of the _New Monthly

Magazine_, which he accepted and retained till 1830, at a salary of £500

per annum. His sub-editor—a very efficient one—was Mr. Cyrus Redding.

In 1831 Campbell brought out the _Metropolitan Magazine_, editing it

himself.

Meantime much domestic affliction had fallen on him. He had lost a child,

and his dear wife died in 1828, a loss which greatly affected him. But he

made himself other strong interests besides domestic and literary ones.

The Poles and the Greeks had enlisted his most ardent sympathies, and had

the best aid of his pen. Moreover, he travelled in France and Germany,

and in 1834 as far as Algiers, from whence he wrote the _Letters from the

South_, published in the _Metropolitan Magazine_.

In 1838 he was presented to the Queen by the chief of his clan, the Duke

of Argyle, at the first levee held by the fair young Sovereign after her

accession to the throne. He had loyally offered her a present of his

works; the Queen accepted them, and graciously sent him in return her

picture. Campbell had been always a Liberal, but, like Leigh Hunt, he was

won by the gentle lady who held the sceptre to sincere loyalty to the

Crown.

Campbell moved to No. 8, Victoria Square, Pimlico, in 1840, and adopted,

as the sharer of his solitary home, his niece, Mary Campbell, whose

gentle ministrations soothed his declining years, and brightened the last

hours of his life.

In 1842 _The Pilgrim of Glencoe_ was published, but it was not well

received, and the aged poet began to perceive that it was time to lay by

his pen; that he spoke to a generation he could not charm. Nevertheless

his age was honoured and prosperous. His works produced nearly £700 a

year, and his means exceeded altogether £1000 per annum. But he fancied

he should prefer a cheaper residence than London, and in compliance with

the aged poet’s fancy, his niece accompanied him to Boulogne, where they

settled, at 5, Rue Petit St. Jean.

Here he remained in a varying state of health till 1844, when he became

seriously ill, and the physician, Dr. Allatt, gave no hopes of his

recovery. His faithful and beloved friend, Dr. Beattie—by whom a charming

memoir of the poet has been since published—came to him, and did his best

to soothe the last moments of the dying poet.

His death-bed was truly Christian. Some of his last words were “Come, let

us sing praises to Christ,” “Let us pray for one another.”

On the 15th of June 1844, his spirit passed calmly, without a struggle,

to a better world.

The body of the poet was brought to England, and on the 3rd of July

buried in Westminster Abbey, near the centre of the Poet’s Corner. His

funeral was attended by numerous friends and admirers, amongst whom were

his chief, the Duke of Argyle, and Sir Robert Peel, then premier.

Thus closed the life of one of the most popular poets of the beginning

of our century. Prosperous in its public phase—very sad and sorely tried

in its domestic one. He had refined taste and pleasing manners; and

no reproach rests upon his private or public character. In his youth

he was singularly beautiful in person. Leigh Hunt tells us (in his

autobiography) that Campbell’s face and person were rather on a small

scale, “his features regular, his eye lively and penetrating, and when he

spoke, dimples played about his mouth, which, nevertheless, had something

restrained and close in it. Some gentle Puritan seemed to have crossed

the breed, and to have left a stamp on his face, such as we often see in

the female Scotch face rather than the male.”

No poet, except Shakespeare, has been so frequently quoted as Campbell.

Many of his lines have become proverbs:—“Coming events cast their shadows

before,” “’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,” &c., &c., are

as familiar to us as household words. “His verses” says a writer in

_Chambers’s Papers for the People_, “cannot be mistaken for those of any

other English poet—his odes do not resemble those of Dryden, Collins,

or Gray—they stand alone.... Scott said, ‘he could imitate all the

modern poets but Tom Campbell,’ he could not imitate him because his

peculiarity was more in the matter than the manner.” High praise this!

Byron said that he believed Campbell wrote so little poetry because he

was afraid of comparison with his early and famous poem: we have not the

volume to quote the exact words. We are rather inclined to think that

the true reason why he gave us no more poems than we possess at present

was, not only that his taste was exceedingly refined and fastidious—he

would not admit many charming minor poems into his collected works—but

that, like Goldsmith, his time was much occupied by task-work for the

publishers; and as he would not suffer hastily written lines to appear,

or any which he had not carefully polished, the quantity he produced was

necessarily small. We are told in _Notes and Queries_ that he took some

pains (returning to the house where he had written it for the purpose)

to substitute a single word which he believed would be an improvement on

another in his _Stanzas to Florine_! Consequently, his poems must have

occupied time and thought beyond what we may imagine from their length,

and his leisure could not have been great. It would have been better,

perhaps, if more voluminous poets had imitated his reticence, and given

us quality rather than quantity.

Campbell was a pleasant companion, and when he pleased could (we have

Byron’s authority for it) talk delightfully; but he was occasionally

absent and silent. His poetry is much admired by foreigners. Madame de

Staël was enraptured with the _Pleasures of Hope_, and Goethe was a warm

admirer of the Poet.

His domestic character was excellent, and his family sorrows—of which

this is no place to speak—were borne by him with patient courage.

His _Life_, admirably given us by his friend Dr. Beattie,[1] is well

worth reading as a record of Genius, aided by patient perseverance,

struggling with difficulties, and vanquishing them; and to it, for fuller

and far more interesting details, we refer the readers of this brief

Prefatory Memoir.

To this collection of his poems we have added his _Lines on Marie

Antoinette_, the _Dirge of Wallace_, and one or two other poems,

published in the _New Monthly Magazine_.

[1] _Life and Letters of Campbell_, by Dr. Beattie.

THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.

PART I.

ANALYSIS OF PART I.

The Poem opens with a comparison between the beauty of remote objects in

a landscape, and those ideal scenes of felicity which the imagination

delights to contemplate ... the influence of anticipation upon the other

passions is next delineated ... an allusion is made to the well-known

fiction in Pagan tradition, that, when all the guardian deities of

mankind abandoned the world, Hope alone was left behind ... the

consolations of this passion in situations of distress ... the seaman

on his watch ... the soldier marching into battle ... allusion to the

interesting adventures of Byron.

The inspiration of Hope, as it actuates the efforts of genius, whether

in the department of science, or of taste ... domestic felicity, how

intimately connected with views of future happiness ... picture of a

mother watching her infant when asleep ... pictures of the prisoner, the

maniac, and the wanderer.

From the consolations of individual misery, a transition is made to

prospects of political improvement in the future state of society ... the

wide field that is yet open for the progress of humanising arts among

uncivilised nations ... from these views of amelioration of society,

and the extension of liberty and truth over despotic and barbarous

countries, by a melancholy contrast of ideas, we are led to reflect upon

the hard fate of a brave people recently conspicuous in their struggles

for independence[2] ... description of the capture of Warsaw, of the

last contest of the oppressors and the oppressed, and the massacre

of the Polish patriots at the bridge of Prague ... apostrophe to the

self-interested enemies of human improvement ... the wrongs of Africa ...

the barbarous policy of Europeans in India ... prophecy in the Hindoo

mythology of the expected descent of the Deity to redress the miseries of

their race, and to take vengeance on the violators of justice and mercy.

[2] The Poles. This Poem first appeared in 1799.

PLEASURES OF HOPE. PART I.

At summer eve, when Heaven’s ethereal bow

Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,

Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,

Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?

Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear

More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?—

’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,

And robes the mountain in its azure hue.

Thus, with delight we linger to survey

The promised joys of life’s unmeasured way;

Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene

More pleasing seems than all the past hath been;

And every form, that Fancy can repair

From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.

What potent spirit guides the raptured eye

To pierce the shades of dim futurity?

Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power,

The pledge of Joy’s anticipated hour?

Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man—

Her dim horizon bounded to a span;

Or, if she hold an image to the view,

’Tis Nature pictured too severely true.

With thee, sweet HOPE! resides the heavenly light,

That pours remotest rapture on the sight:

Thine is the charm of life’s bewildered way,

That calls each slumbering passion into play.

Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band,

On tiptoe watching, start at thy command,

And fly where’er thy mandate bids them steer,

To Pleasure’s path, or Glory’s bright career.

Primeval HOPE, the Aönian Muses say,

When Man and Nature mourned their first decay;

When every form of death, and every woe,

Shot from malignant stars to earth below,

When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War

Yoked the red dragons of her iron car,

When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain,

Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again;

All all forsook the friendless guilty mind,

But HOPE, the charmer, lingered still behind.

Thus, while Elijah’s burning wheels prepare

From Carmel’s heights to sweep the fields of air.[3]

The prophet’s mantle, ere his flight began,

Dropt on the world—a sacred gift to man.

Auspicious HOPE! in thy sweet garden grow

Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe;

Won by their sweets, in Nature’s languid hour,

The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower;

There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing,

What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring!

What viewless forms the Æolian organ play,

And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away.

Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore

Earth’s loneliest bounds, and Ocean’s wildest shore.

Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields

His bark careering o’er unfathomed fields;

Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar,

Where Andes, giant of the western star,

With meteor-standard to the winds unfurled,

Looks from his throne of clouds o’er half the world!

Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles,

On Behring’s rocks, or Greenland’s naked isles:

Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow,

From wastes that slumber in eternal snow;

And waft, across the wave’s tumultuous roar,

The wolf’s long howl from Oonalaska’s shore.

Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,

Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form!

Rocks, waves, and winds, the shattered bark delay;

Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.

But HOPE can here her moonlight vigils keep,

And sing to charm the spirit of the deep:

Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole,

Her visions warm the watchman’s pensive soul;

His native hills that rise in happier climes,

The grot that heard his song of other times,

His cottage home, his bark of slender sail,

His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossomed vale,

Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind,

Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind;

Meets at each step a friend’s familiar face,

And flies at last to Helen’s long embrace;

Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear,

And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear!

While, long neglected, but at length caressed,

His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest,

Points to the master’s eyes (where’er they roam)

His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.

Friend of the brave! in peril’s darkest hour,

Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power;

To thee the heart its trembling homage yields,

On stormy floods, and carnage-covered fields,

When front to front the bannered hosts combine,

Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line.

When all is still on Death’s devoted soil,

The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil;

As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high

The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye,

Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come,

And hears thy stormy music in the drum!

And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore

The hardy Byron to his native shore—[4]

In horrid climes, where Chiloe’s tempests sweep

Tumultuous murmurs o’er the troubled deep,

’Twas his to mourn Misfortune’s rudest shock,

Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock,

To wake each joyless morn, and search again

The famished haunts of solitary men;

Whose race, unyielding as their native storm,

Know not a trace of Nature but the form;

Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued,

Pale, but intrepid—sad, but unsubdued,

Pierced the deep woods, and hailing from afar

The moon’s pale planet and the northern star,

Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before,

Hyænas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore;

Till, led by thee o’er many a cliff sublime,

He found a warmer world, a milder clime,

A home to rest, a shelter to defend,

Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend![5]

Congenial HOPE! thy passion-kindling power,

How bright, how strong, in youth’s untroubled hour!

On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand,

I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand.

“Go, child of Heaven! (thy wingèd words proclaim)

’Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame?

Lo! Newton, priest of nature, shines afar,

Scans the wide world, and numbers every star!

Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply,

And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye!

Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound,

The speed of light, the circling march of sound;

With Franklin grasp the lightning’s fiery wing,

Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string.[6]

“The Swedish sage[7] admires, in yonder bowers,

His winged insects, and his rosy flowers;

Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train

With sounding horn, and counts them on the plain—

So once, at Heaven’s command, the wanderers came

To Eden’s shade, and heard their various name.

“Far from the world, in yon sequestered clime,

Slow pass the sons of Wisdom more sublime;

Calm as the fields of Heaven his sapient eye

The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high,

Admiring Plato, on his spotless page,

Stamps the bright dictates of the Father sage:[8]

‘Shall nature bound to earth’s diurnal span

The fire of God, the immortal soul of man?’

“Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lightened eye

To Wisdom’s walks, the sacred Nine are nigh:

Hark! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height,

From streams that wander in eternal light,

Ranged on their hill, Harmonia’s daughters swell

The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell;

Deep from his vaults, the Loxian murmurs flow,[9]

And Pythia’s awful organ peals below.

“Beloved of Heaven! the smiling Muse shall shed

Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head;

Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined,

And breathe a holy madness o’er thy mind.

I see thee roam her guardian power beneath,

And talk with spirits on the midnight heath;

Enquire of guilty wanderers whence they came,

And ask each blood-stained form his earthly name;

Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell,

And read the trembling world the tales of hell.

“When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue,

Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew,

And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ,

Sacred to love, and walks of tender joy;

A milder mood the goddess shall recall,

And soft as dew thy tones of music fall;

While Beauty’s deeply-pictured smiles impart

A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart—

Warm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain,

And plead in Beauty’s ear, nor plead in vain.

“Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem,

And steep thy song in Mercy’s mellow stream;

To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile—

For Beauty’s tears are lovelier than her smile;—

On Nature’s throbbing anguish pour relief

And teach impassioned souls the joy of grief?

“Yes; to thy tongue shall seraph words be given,

And power on earth to plead the cause of Heaven;

The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone,

That never mused on sorrow but its own,

Unlocks a generous store at thy command,

Like Horeb’s rocks beneath the prophet’s hand.[10]

The living lumber of his kindred earth,

Charmed into soul, receives a second birth,

Feels thy dread power another heart afford,

Whose passion-touched harmonious strings accord

True as the circling spheres to Nature’s plan;

And man, the brother, lives the friend of man.

“Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven’s command,

When Israel marched along the desert land,

Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar,

And told the path,—a never-setting star:

So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine,

HOPE is thy star, her light is ever thine.”

Propitious Power! when rankling cares annoy

The sacred home of Hymenean joy;

When doomed to Poverty’s sequestered dell,

The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell,

Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame,

Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same—

Oh, there, prophetic HOPE! thy smile bestow,

And chase the pangs that worth should never know—

There, as the parent deals his scanty store

To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more,

Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage

Their father’s wrongs, and shield his latter age.

What though for him no Hybla sweets distil,

Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill;

Tell, that when silent years have passed away,

That when his eye grows dim, his tresses grey,

These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build,

And deck with fairer flowers his little field,

And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe

Arcadian beauty on the barren heath;

Tell, that while Love’s spontaneous smile endears

The days of peace, the sabbath of his years,

Health shall prolong to many a festive hour

The social pleasures of his humble bower.

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,

Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps;

She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies,

Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes,

And weaves a song of melancholy joy—

“Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy:

No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine;

No sigh that rends thy father’s heart and mine;

Bright as his manly sire the son shall be

In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he!

Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,

Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past—

With many a smile my solitude repay,

And chase the world’s ungenerous scorn away.

“And say, when summoned from the world and thee,

I lay my head beneath the willow tree,

Wilt _thou_, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,

And soothe my parted spirit lingering near?

Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour to shed

The tears of Memory o’er my narrow bed;

With aching temples on thy hand reclined,

Muse on the last farewell I leave behind,

Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,

And think on all my love, and all my woe?”

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye

Can look regard, or brighten in reply;

But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim

A mother’s ear by that endearing name;

Soon as the playful innocent can prove

A tear of pity, or a smile of love,

Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,

Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer,

Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear

The mournful ballad warbled in his ear;

How fondly looks admiring HOPE the while,

At every artless tear, and every smile!

How glows the joyous parent to descry

A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!

Where is the troubled heart, consigned to share

Tumultuous toils, or solitary care,

Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray

To count the joys of Fortune’s better day!

Lo, nature, life, and liberty relume

The dim-eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom,

A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored,

Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board;

Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow,

And virtue triumphs o’er remembered woe.

Chide not his peace, proud Reason! nor destroy

The shadowy forms of uncreated joy,

That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour

Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour.

Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale

That wafts so slow her lover’s distant sail;

She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore

Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore,

Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze,

Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze

Poor widowed wretch! ’twas there she wept in vain,

Till Memory fled her agonizing brain;—

But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe,

Ideal peace, that truth could ne’er bestow;

Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam,

And aimless HOPE delights her darkest dream.

Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky,

And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry,

Piled on the steep, her blazing faggots burn

To hail the bark that never can return;

And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep

That constant love can linger on the deep.

And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew

The world’s regard, that soothes, though half untrue,

Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore,

But found not pity when it erred no more.

Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye

The unfeeling proud one looks—and passes by,

Condemned on Penury’s barren path to roam,

Scorned by the world, and left without a home—

Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray

Down by the hamlet’s hawthorn-scented way,

Where, round the cot’s romantic glade, are seen

The blossomed bean-field, and the sloping green,

Leans o’er its humble gate, and thinks the while—

Oh! that for me some home like this would smile,

Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form

Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm!

There should my hand no stinted boon assign

To wretched hearts with sorrow such as mine!—

That generous wish can soothe unpitied care,

And HOPE half mingles with the poor man’s prayer.

HOPE! when I mourn, with sympathising mind,

The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind,

Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see

The boundless fields of rapture yet to be;

I watch the wheels of Nature’s mazy plan,

And learn the future by the past of man.

Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,

And rule the spacious world from clime to clime,

Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore,

Trace every wave, and culture every shore.

On Erie’s banks, where tigers steal along,

And the dread Indian chaunts a dismal song,

Where human fiends on midnight errands walk,

And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk,

There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray,

And shepherds dance at Summer’s opening day;

Each wandering genius of the lonely glen

Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men,

And silence watch, on woodland heights around,

The village curfew as it tolls profound.

In Lybian groves, where damnèd rites are done,

That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun,

Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane,

Wild Obi flies[11]—the veil is rent in twain.

Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam

Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home;

Where’er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,

From Guinea’s coast to Sibir’s[12] dreary mines,

Truth shall pervade the unfathomed darkness there,

And light the dreadful features of despair.

Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load,

And asks the image back that Heaven bestowed!

Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns,

And, as the slave departs, the man returns.

Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile,

And HOPE, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,

When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars

Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars,

Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,

Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn;

Tumultuous horror brooded o’er her van,

Presaging wrath to Poland—and to man![13]

Warsaw’s last champion from her height surveyed,

Wide o’er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,—

“Oh! Heaven!” he cried, “my bleeding country save!—

Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?

Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,

Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!

By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!

And swear for her to live!—with her to die!”

He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed

His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;

Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,

Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;

Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,

Revenge, or death,—the watch-word and reply;

Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,

And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!—

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew:—

Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,

Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;

Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,

Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear,

Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;—

HOPE, for a season, bade the world farewell,

And Freedom shrieked—as KOSCIUSKO fell!

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there,

Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air—

On Prague’s proud arch the fires of ruin glow,

His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below;

The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way,

Bursts the wide cry of horror and dismay!

Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,

A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!

Earth shook—red meteors flashed along the sky,

And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry!

Oh! righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave,

Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?

Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod,

That smote the foes of Zion and of God;

That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car

Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar?

Where was the storm that slumbered till the host

Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast;

Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,

And heaved an ocean on their march below?

Departed spirits of the mighty dead!

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!

Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,

Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!

Yet for Sarmatia’s tears of blood atone,

And make her arm puissant as your own!

Oh! once again to Freedom’s cause return

The patriot TELL—the BRUCE OF BANNOCKBURN!

Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land I shall see

That man hath yet a soul—and dare be free!

A little while, along thy saddening plains,

The starless night of Desolation reigns;

Truth shall restore the light by Nature given,

And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven!

Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled,

Her name, her nature, withered from the world!

Ye that the rising morn invidious mark,

And hate the light—because your deeds are dark;

Ye that expanding truth invidious view,

And think, or wish, the song of HOPE untrue;

Perhaps your little hands presume to span

The march of Genius, and the powers of man;

Perhaps ye watch, at Pride’s unhallowed shrine,

Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine:—

“Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, and here

Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career.”

Tyrants! in vain ye trace the wizard ring;

In vain ye limit Mind’s unwearied spring:

What! can ye lull the wingèd winds asleep,

Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep?

No!—the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand.

It rolled not back when Canute gave command!

Man! can thy doom no brighter soul allow?

Still must thou live a blot on Nature’s brow?

Shall War’s polluted banner ne’er be furled?

Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world?

What! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied?

Why then hath Plato lived—or Sidney died?—

Ye fond adorers of departed fame,

Who warm at Scipio’s worth, or Tully’s name!

Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire

The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre!

Rapt in historic ardour, who adore

Each classic haunt, and well-remembered shore.

Where Valour tuned, amid her chosen throng,

The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song;

Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms

Of England’s glory, and Helvetia’s arms!

See Roman fire in Hampden’s bosom swell,

And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell!

Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore,

Hath Valour left the world—to live no more?

No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die,

And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye?

Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls,

Encounter Fate, and triumph as he falls?

Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm,

The might that slumbers in a peasant’s arm?

Yes! in that generous cause, for ever strong,

The patriot’s virtue and the poet’s song,

Still, as the tide of ages rolls away,

Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay!

Yes! there are hearts, prophetic HOPE may trust,

That slumber yet in uncreated dust,

Ordained to fire the adoring sons of earth

With every charm of wisdom and of worth;

Ordained to light, with intellectual day,

The mazy wheels of Nature as they play,

Or, warm with Fancy’s energy, to glow,

And rival all but Shakspeare’s name below!

And say, supernal Powers! who deeply scan

Heaven’s dark decrees, unfathomed yet by man,

When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame,

That embryo spirit, yet without a name,—

That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands

Shall burst the Lybian’s adamantine bands?

Who, sternly marking on his native soil

The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil,

Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see

Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free!

Yet, yet, degraded men! the expected day

That breaks your bitter cup, is far away;

Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you still to bleed,

And holy men give Scripture for the deed;

Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save

A wretch, a coward; yes, because a slave!—

Eternal Nature! when thy giant hand

Had heaved the floods, and fixed the trembling land,

When life sprung startling at thy plastic call,

Endless her forms, and man the lord of all!

Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee,

To wear eternal chains and bow the knee?

Was man ordained the slave of man to toil,

Yoked with the brutes, and fettered to the soil;

Weighed in a tyrant’s balance with his gold?

No!—Nature stamped us in a heavenly mould!

She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge,

Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge!

No homeless Lybian, on the stormy deep,

To call upon his country’s name, and weep!—

Lo! once in triumph, on his boundless plain,

The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign;

With fires proportioned to his native sky,

Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye;

Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone,

The spear, the lion, and the woods his own!

Or led the combat, bold without a plan,

An artless savage, but a fearless man!

The plunderer came!—alas! no glory smiles

For Congo’s chief on yonder Indian isles;

For ever fallen! no son of Nature now,

With Freedom chartered on his manly brow!

Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away,

And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day,

Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore

To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore!

The shrill horn blew;[14] at that alarum knell

His guardian angel took a last farewell!

That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned

The fiery grandeur of a generous mind!

Poor fettered man! I hear thee whispering low

Unhallowed vows to Guilt, the child of Woe!

Friendless thy heart; and canst thou harbour there

A wish but death—a passion but despair!

The widowed Indian, when her lord expires,

Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires!

So falls the heart at Thraldom’s bitter sigh!

So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty!

But not to Lybia’s barren climes alone,

To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone,

Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye,

Degraded worth, and poor misfortune’s sigh!—

Ye orient realms, where Ganges’ waters run!

Prolific fields! dominions of the sun!

How long your tribes have trembled and obeyed!

How long was Timour’s iron sceptre swayed,[15]

Whose marshalled hosts, the lions of the plain,

From Scythia’s northern mountains to the main,

Raged o’er your plundered shrines and altars bare,

With blazing torch and gory scimitar,—

Stunned with the cries of death each gentle gale,

And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale!

Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame,

When Brahma’s children perished for his name;

The martyr smiled beneath avenging power,

And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour!

When Europe sought your subject realms to gain,

And stretched her giant sceptre o’er the main,

Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape,

And braved the stormy spirit of the Cape;[16]

Children of Brahma! then was Mercy nigh

To wash the stain of blood’s eternal dye?

Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save,

When freeborn Britons crossed the Indian wave?

Ah, no!—to more than Rome’s ambition true,

The Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you!

She the bold route of Europe’s guilt began,

And, in the march of nations, led the van!

Rich in the gems of India’s gaudy zone,

And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own,

Degenerate trade! thy minions could despise

The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries;

Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store,

While famished nations died along the shore:[17]

Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear

The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair;

Could stamp disgrace on man’s polluted name,

And barter, with their gold, eternal shame!

But hark! as bowed to earth the Brahmin kneels,

From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals!

Of India’s fate her guardian spirits tell,

Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell,

And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind,

Roll on the azure paths of every wind.

“Foes of mankind! (her guardian spirits say,)

Revolving ages bring the bitter day,

When Heaven’s unerring arm shall fall on you,

And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew;

Nine times have Brahma’s wheels of lightning hurled

His awful presence o’er the alarmèd world;[17]

Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame,

Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came;

Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain—

But Heaven shall burst her starry gates again!

He comes! dread Brahma shakes the sunless sky

With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high,

Heaven’s fiery horse, beneath his warrior form,

Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm!

Wide waves his flickering sword; his bright arms glow

Like summer suns, and light the world below!

Earth, and her trembling isles in Ocean’s bed,

Are shook; and Nature rocks beneath his tread!

“To pour redress on India’s injured realm,

The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm;

To chase destruction from her plundered shore

With arts and arms that triumphed once before,

The tenth Avatar comes! at Heaven’s command

Shall Seriswattee[18] wave her hallowed wand!

And Camdeo[19] bright, and Ganesa[20] sublime,

Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime!—

Come, Heavenly Powers! primeval peace restore!

Love!—Mercy!—Wisdom!—rule for evermore!”

END OF THE FIRST PART.

[3] An error of the poet’s: Elijah did not ascend from Carmel, but from

the eastern side of Jordan.—(See 2 KINGS ii. 7-11.)

[4] See Narrative of Byron’s Shipwreck.—Notes at end of Volume.

[5] _A Briton and a friend._—Don Patricio Gedd, a Scotch physician in one

of the Spanish settlements, hospitably relieved Byron and his wretched

associates, of which the commodore speaks in the warmest terms of

gratitude.

[6] The seven strings of Apollo’s harp were the symbolical representation

of the seven planets. Herschell, by discovering an eighth, might be said

to add another string to the instrument.

[7] Linnæus, the famous Swedish Botanist.

[8] Socrates.

[9] _Deep from his vaults, the Loxian murmurs flow._—Loxias is the name

frequently given to Apollo by Greek writers; it is met with more than

once in the Chœphoræ of Æschylus.

[10] EXODUS xvii. 3, 5, 6.

[11] The superstition of the African savages.—See Notes.

[12] Siberia.—See Notes.

[13] See Notes.

[14] The negroes in the West Indies were summoned to their work by a

shell or horn.

[15] See Notes.

[16] See the description of the Cape of Good Hope, translated from

Camoens by Mickle.

[17] See Notes at the end of the volume.

[18] The oriental Minerva.

[19] The god of Love.

[20] Ganesa answers to Janus.

THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.

PART II.

ANALYSIS OF PART II

Apostrophe to the power of Love ... its intimate connection with

generous and social Sensibility ... allusion to that beautiful passage

in the beginning of the book of Genesis, which represents the happiness

of Paradise itself incomplete, till love was superadded to its other

blessings ... the dreams of future felicity which a lively imagination

is apt to cherish, when Hope is animated by refined attachment ... this

disposition to combine, in one imaginary scene of residence, all that

is pleasing in our estimate of happiness, compared to the skill of the

great artist who personified perfect beauty, in the picture of Venus, by

an assemblage of the most beautiful features he could find ... a summer

and winter evening described, as they may be supposed to arise in the

mind of one who wishes, with enthusiasm, for the union of friendship and

retirement.

Hope and imagination inseparable agents ... even in those contemplative

moments when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world,

our minds are not unattended with an impression that we shall some day

have a wider and distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the

partial glimpse we now enjoy.

The last and most sublime influence of Hope is the concluding topic

of the poem ... the predominance of a belief in a future state over

the terrors attendant on dissolution ... the baneful influence of that

sceptical philosophy which bars us from such comforts ... allusion to the

fate of a suicide ... episode of Conrad and Ellenore ... conclusion.

PLEASURES OF HOPE. PART II.

In joyous youth, what soul hath never known

Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own?

Who hath not paused while Beauty’s pensive eye

Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh?

Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame,

The power of grace, the magic of a name?

There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow,

Cold as the rocks on Torneo’s hoary brow;

There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed,

In self-adoring pride securely mailed:—

But, triumph not, ye peace-enamoured few!

Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you!

For you no fancy consecrates the scene

Where rapture uttered vows, and wept between;

’Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet;

No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!

Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed,

The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead?

No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy,

And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy!

And say, without our hopes, without our fears,

Without the home that plighted love endears,

Without the smile from partial beauty won,

Oh! what were man?—a world without a sun.

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,

There dwelt no joy in Eden’s rosy bower!

In vain the viewless seraph lingering there,

At starry midnight charmed the silent air:

In vain the wild bird carolled on the steep,

To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep;

In vain, to soothe, the solitary shade,

Aërial notes in mingling measure played;

The summer wind that shook the spangled tree,

The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;—

Still slowly passed the melancholy day,

And still the stranger wist not where to stray.

The world was sad!—the garden was a wild!

And man, the hermit, sighed—till woman smiled!

True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring

Delirious anguish on his fiery wing;

Barred from delight by Fate’s untimely hand,

By wealthless lot, or pitiless command;

Or doomed to gaze on beauties that adorn

The smile of triumph or the frown of scorn;

While Memory watches o’er the sad review,

Of joys that faded like the morning dew;

Peace may depart—and life and nature seem

A barren path, a wildness, and a dream!

But can the noble mind for ever brood,

The willing victim of a weary mood,

On heartless cares that squander life away,

And cloud young Genius brightening into day?—

Shame to the coward thought that e’er betrayed

The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade![21]—

If HOPE’S creative spirit cannot raise

One trophy sacred to thy future days,

Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine

Of hopeless love to murmur and repine!

But, should a sigh of milder mood express

Thy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness,

Should Heaven’s fair harbinger delight to pour

Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour,

No tear to blot thy memory’s pictured page

No fears but such as fancy can assuage;

Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss

The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss,

(For love pursues an ever-devious race,

True to the winding lineaments of grace;)

Yet still may hope her talisman employ

To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy,

And all her kindred energies impart

That burn the brightest in the purest heart.

When first the Rhodian’s mimic art arrayed

The queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade,

The happy master mingled on his piece

Each look that charmed him in the fair of Greece.

To faultless nature true, he stole a grace

From every finer form and sweeter face;

And as he sojourned on the Ægean isles,

Woo’d all their love, and treasured all their smiles;

Then glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined,

And mortal charms seemed heavenly when combined

Love on the picture smiled! Expression poured

Her mingling spirit there—and Greece adored!

So thy fair hand, enamoured Fancy! gleans

The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes;

Thy pencil traces on the lover’s thought

Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote,

Where love and lore may claim alternate hours,

With Peace embosom’d in Idalian bowers!

Remote from busy Life’s bewildered way,

O’er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway!

Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore,

With hermit steps to wander and adore!

There shall he love, when genial morn appears,

Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears,

To watch the brightening roses of the sky,

And muse on Nature with a poet’s eye!—

And when the sun’s last splendour lights the deep,

The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep;

When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail,

And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale,

His path shall be where streamy mountains swell

Their shadowy grandeur o’er the narrow dell,

Where mouldering piles and forests intervene,

Mingling with darker tints the living green:

No circling hills his ravished eye to bound,

Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around.

The moon is up—the watch-tower dimly burns—

And down the vale his sober step returns;

But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey

The still sweet fall of music far away;

And oft he lingers from his home a while

To watch the dying notes!—and start, and smile!

Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweep

The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep!

Though boundless snows the withered heath deform

And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm,

Yet shall the smile of social love repay,

With mental light, the melancholy day!

And, when its short and sullen noon is o’er,

The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore,

How bright the faggots in his little hall

Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!

How blest he names, in Love’s familiar tone,

The kind, fair friend, by nature marked his own;

And, in the waveless mirror of his mind,

Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,

Since Anna’s empire o’er his heart began!

Since first he called her his before the holy man!

Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome,

And light the wintry paradise of home!

And let the half-uncurtained window hail

Some way-worn man benighted in the vale!

Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high,

As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky,

While fiery hosts in Heaven’s wide circle play,

And bathe in lurid light the milky-way,

Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower,

Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour—

With pathos shall command, with wit beguile,

A generous tear of anguish, or a smile—

Thy woes, Arion![22] and thy simple tale,

O’er all the heart shall triumph and prevail!

Charmed as they read the verse too sadly true,

How gallant Albert, and his weary crew,

Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save,

And toiled—and shrieked—and perished on the wave!

Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna’s steep,

The seaman’s cry was heard along the deep;

There, on his funeral waters, dark and wild,

The dying father blessed his darling child!

“Oh! Mercy, shield her innocence,” he cried,

Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died!

Or they will learn how generous worth sublimes

The robber Moor,[23] and pleads for all his crimes!

How poor Amelia kissed, with many a tear,

His hand blood-stained, but ever, ever dear!

Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord,

And wept and prayed perdition from his sword!

Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cry

The strings of Nature cracked with agony!

He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled,

And burst the ties that bound him to the world!

Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel

The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel—

Turn to the gentler melodies that suit

Thalia’s harp, or Pan’s Arcadian lute;

Or, down the stream of Truth’s historic page,

From clime to clime descend, from age to age!

Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude

Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood;

There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rate

What millions died—that Cæsar might be great![24]

Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore,

Marched by their Charles[25] to Dneiper’s swampy shore;

Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast,

The Swedish soldier sunk—and groaned his last!

File after file the stormy showers benumb,

Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum!

Horseman and horse confessed the bitter pang,

And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang!

Yet, ere he sunk in Nature’s last repose,

Ere life’s warm torrent to the fountain froze,

The dying man to Sweden turned his eye,

Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh!

Imperial Pride looked sullen on his plight,

And Charles beheld—nor shuddered at the sight!

Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky,

Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie,

And HOPE attends, companion of the way,

Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day!

In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere

That gems the starry girdle of the year;

In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell,

Pure from their God, created millions dwell,

Whose names and natures, unrevealed below,

We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know;

For, as Iona’s saint,[26] a giant form,

Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm

(When o’er each Runic altar, weed-entwined,

The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,)

Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar

From Kilda to the green Ierne’s shore;

So, when thy pure and renovated mind

This perishable dust hath left behind,

Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train,

Like distant isles embosomed in the main;

Rapt to the shrine where motion first began,

And light and life in mingling torrent ran;

From whence each bright rotundity was hurled,

The throne of God,—the centre of the world!

Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung

That suasive HOPE hath but a Syren tongue!

True; she may sport with life’s untutored day,

Nor heed the solace of its last decay,

The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,

And part, like Ajut—never to return![27]

But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage

The grief and passions of our greener age,

Though dull the close of life, and far away

Each flower that hailed the dawning of the day;

Yet o’er her lovely hopes, that once were dear,

The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe,

With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill,

And weep their falsehood, though she love them still!

Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled,

The king of Judah mourned his rebel child!

Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy

Smiled on his sire, and filled his heart with joy!

My Absalom! the voice of Nature cried:

Oh! that for thee thy father could have died!

For bloody was the deed, and rashly done,

That slew my Absalom!—my son!—my son!

Unfading HOPE! when life’s last embers burn,

When soul to soul, and dust to dust return!

Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!

Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power!

What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly

The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!

Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey

The morning dream of life’s eternal day—

Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,

And all the phœnix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,

The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!

Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,

It is a dread and awful thing to die!

Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun!

Where Time’s far-wandering tide has never run,

From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres,

A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

’Tis Heaven’s commanding trumpet, long and loud,

Like Sinai’s thunder, pealing from the cloud!

While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,

The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;

And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod

The roaring waves, and call’d upon his God,

With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,

And shrieks, and hovers o’er the dark abyss!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume

The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;

Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll

Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul!

Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,

Chased on his night-steed by the star of day.

The strife is o’er—the pangs of Nature close,

And life’s last rapture triumphs o’er her woes.

Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,

The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,

On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,

Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;

Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail

Bethlehem’s shepherds in the lonely vale,

When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still

Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill!

Soul of the just! companion of the dead!

Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled?

Back to its heavenly source thy being goes,

Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose;

Doomed on his airy path a while to burn,

And doomed, like thee, to travel, and return.—

Hark! from the world’s exploding centre driven,

With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven,

Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,

On bickering wheels, and adamantine car;

From planet whirled to planet more remote,

He visits realms beyond the reach of thought,

But wheeling homeward, when his course is run,

Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!

So hath the traveller of earth unfurled

Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;

And o’er the path by mortal never trod,

Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God!

Oh! lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse,

One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance,

Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,

The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;

Who, mouldering earthward, ’reft of every trust,

In joyless union wedded to the dust,

Could all his parting energy dismiss,

And call this barren world sufficient bliss?—

There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien,

Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene,

Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day,

Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,

Frail as the leaf in Autumn’s yellow bower,

Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower;

A friendless slave, a child without a sire,

Whose mortal life and momentary fire,

Lights to the grave his chance-created form,

As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;

And, when the gun’s tremendous flash is o’er,

To night and silence sink for evermore!—

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,

Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame?

Is this your triumph—this your proud applause,

Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?

For this hath Science searched, on weary wing,

By shore and sea—each mute and living thing!

Launched with Iberia’s pilot[28] from the steep,

To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep?

Or round the cope her living chariot driven,

And wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven?

Oh! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there,

To waft us home the message of despair?

Then bind the palm, thy sage’s brow to suit,

Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit!

Ah me! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears,

Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow’s tears,

Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,

As waves the night-shade round the sceptic’s head.

What is the bigot’s torch, the tyrant’s chain?

I smile on death, if heavenward HOPE remain!

But, if the warring winds of Nature’s strife

Be all the faithless charter of my life,

If Chance awaked, inexorable power,

This frail and feverish being of an hour;

Doomed o’er the world’s precarious scene to sweep,

Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,

To know Delight but by her parting smile,

And toil, and wish, and weep a little while;

Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain

This troubled pulse, and visionary brain!

Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom,

And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb!

Truth, ever lovely,—since the world began,

The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man,—

How can thy words from balmy slumber start

Reposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart!

Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled,

And that were true which Nature never told,

Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field;

No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed!

Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,

The doom that bars us from a better fate;

But, sad as angels for the good man’s sin,

Weep to record, and blush to give it in!

And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay,

Pause at her martyr’s tomb, and read the lay.

Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale

It darkly hints a melancholy tale!

There, as the homeless madman sits alone,

In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan!

And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds,

When the Moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds.

Poor lost Alonzo! Fate’s neglected child!

Mild be the doom of Heaven—as thou wert mild!

For oh! thy heart in holy mould was cast,

And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last.

Poor lost Alonzo! still I seem to hear

The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier!

When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drowned,

Thy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground!

Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,

But leave—oh! leave the light of HOPE behind!

What though my wingèd hours of bliss have been,

Like angel-visits, few and far between,

Her musing mood shall every pang appease,

And charm—when pleasures lose the power to please!

Yes; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee:

Close not the light of Fortune’s stormy sea—

Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love’s propitious smile,

Chase every care, and charm a little while,

Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ,

And all her strings are harmonised to joy!—

But why so short is Love’s delighted hour?

Why fades the dew on Beauty’s sweetest flower?

Why can no hymnèd charm of music heal

The sleepless woes impassioned spirits feel?

Can Fancy’s fairy hands no veil create,

To hide the sad realities of fate?—

No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule,

Nor all the pride of Wisdom’s worldly school,

Have power to soothe, unaided and alone,

The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone!

When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls,

Fleet as the meteor o’er the desert falls;

When, ’reft of all, yon widowed sire appears

A lonely hermit in the vale of years;

Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow

To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe?

No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu,—

Souls of impassioned mould, she speaks to you!

Weep not, she says, at Nature’s transient pain,

Congenial spirits part to meet again!

What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew,

What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu,—

Daughter of Conrad! when he heard his knell,

And bade his country and his child farewell!

Doomed the long isles of Sydney-cove to see,

The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee.

Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart,

And thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part;

Thrice from his trembling lips he murmured low

The plaint that owned unutterable woe;

Till Faith, prevailing o’er his sullen doom,

As bursts the morn on night’s unfathomed gloom,

Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime,

Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time!

“And weep not thus,” he cried, “young Ellenore,

My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more!

Short shall this half-extinguished spirit burn,

And soon these limbs to kindred dust return!

But not, my child, with life’s precarious fire,

The immortal ties of Nature shall expire;

These shall resist the triumph of decay,

When time is o’er, and worlds have passed away!

Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie,

But that which warmed it once shall never die!

That spark unburied in its mortal frame,

With living light, eternal, and the same,

Shall beam on Joy’s interminable years,

Unveiled by darkness—unassuaged by tears!

“Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep,

One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep;

But when I gain the home without a friend,

And press the uneasy couch where none attend,

This last embrace, still cherished in my heart,

Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part;

Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh,

And hush the groan of life’s last agony!

“Farewell! when strangers lift thy father’s bier,

And place my nameless stone without a tear;

When each returning pledge hath told my child

That Conrad’s tomb is on the desert piled;

And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees

Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze;

Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o’er?

Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore?

Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide,

Scorned by the world, to factious guilt allied?

Ah! no; methinks the generous and the good

Will woo thee from the shades of solitude!

O’er friendless grief compassion shall awake,

And smile on innocence, for Mercy’s sake!”

Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be,

The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee!

If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell,

If that faint murmur be the last farewell,

If Fate unite the faithful but to part,

Why is their memory sacred to the heart?

Why does the brother of my childhood seem

Restored a while in every pleasing dream?

Why do I joy the lonely spot to view,

By artless friendship blessed when life was new?

Eternal HOPE! when yonder spheres sublime

Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,

Thy joyous youth began—but not to fade.—

When all the sister planets have decayed;

When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,

And Heaven’s last thunder shakes the world below;

Thou, undismayed, shalt o’er the ruins smile,

And light thy torch at Nature’s funeral pile.

[21] “Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade.”—_Dryden._

[22] Falconer, who calls himself Arion in “The Shipwreck” (Canto III.)

[23] See Schiller’s tragedy of “The Robbers,” Scene 5.

[24] The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Cæsar has been usually

estimated at two millions of men.

[25] Charles XII., of Sweden.—See Notes.

[26] See Notes.

[27] See “Rambler.”

[28] Columbus.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

ADVERTISEMENT.

Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war,

give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania,

which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery

and Incidents of the following Poem are connected with that event.

The testimonies of historians and travellers concur in describing the

infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the

hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the

country, and the luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an

evil hour, the junction of European with Indian arms, converted this

terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. Mr. ISAAC WELD informs

us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and

bearing marks of conflagration, were still preserved by the recent

inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. PART I.

I.

On Susquehana’s side, fair Wyoming!

Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall

And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring

Of what thy gentle people did befall;

Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all

That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore.

Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall,

And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore,

Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania’s shore!

II.

Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies,

The happy shepherd swains had nought to do

But feed their flocks on green declivities,

Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe,

From morn till evening’s sweeter pastime grew,

With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown,

Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew;

And aye those sunny mountains half-way down

Would echo flageolet from some romantic town.

III.

Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes

His leave, how might you the flamingo see

Disporting like a meteor on the lakes—

And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree:

And every sound of life was full of glee,

From merry mock-bird’s song,[29] or hum of men;

While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry,

The wild-deer arched his neck from glades, and then

Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.

IV.

And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime

Heard, but in transatlantic story rung,

For here the exile met from every clime,

And spoke in friendship every distant tongue:

Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung,

Were but divided by the running brook;

And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung,

On plains no sieging mine’s volcano shook,

The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook.

V.

Nor far some Andalusian saraband

Would sound to many a native roundelay—

But who is he that yet a dearer land

Remembers over hills and far away?

Green Albin![30] what though he no more survey

Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore,

Thy pellochs[31] rolling from the mountain bay,

Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor,

And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar![32]

VI.

Alas! poor Caledonia’s mountaineer,

That want’s stern edict e’er, and feudal grief,

Had forced him from a home he loved so dear!

Yet found he here a home, and glad relief,

And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf,

That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee:

And England sent her men, of men the chief,

Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be,

To plant the tree of life,—to plant fair Freedom’s tree!

VII.

Here was not mingled in the city’s pomp

Of life’s extremes the grandeur and the gloom;

Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp,

Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature’s doom,

Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb.

One venerable man, beloved of all,

Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom,

To sway the strife, that seldom might befall:

And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall.

VIII.

How reverend was the look, serenely aged,

He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire,

Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged,

Undimmed by weakness’ shade, or turbid ire!

And though, amidst the calm of thought entire,

Some high and haughty features might betray

A soul impetuous once, ’twas earthly fire

That fled composure’s intellectual ray,

As Etna’s fires grow dim before the rising day.

IX.

I boast no song in magic wonders rife,

But yet, oh, Nature! is there nought to prize,

Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?

And dwells in daylight truth’s salubrious skies

No form with which the soul may sympathise?—

Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild

The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,

An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,

Or blest his noonday walk—she was his only child.

X.

The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude’s cheek—

What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire

A Briton’s independence taught to seek

Far western worlds; and there his household fire

The light of social love did long inspire,

And many a halcyon day he lived to see

Unbroken but by one misfortune dire,

When fate had reft his mutual heart—but she

Was gone—and Gertrude climbed a widowed father’s knee.

XI.

A loved bequest,—and I may half impart—

To them that feel the strong paternal tie,

How like a new existence to his heart

That living flower uprose beneath his eye,

Dear as she was from cherub infancy,

From hours when she would round his garden play,

To time when as the ripening years went by,

Her lovely mind could culture well repay,

And more engaging grew; from pleasing day to day.

XII.

I may not paint those thousand infant charms;

(Unconscious fascination, undesigned!)

The orison repeated in his arms,

For God to bless her sire and all mankind;

The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,

Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con,

(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind:)

All uncompanioned else her heart had gone

Till now, in Gertrude’s eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.

XIII.

And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour,

When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent,

An Indian from his bark approach their bower,

Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament;[33]

The red wild feathers on his brow were blent,

And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light

A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went,

Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright,

Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night.

XIV.

Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young—

The dimple from his polished cheek had fled;

When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung,

The Oneyda warrior to the planter said,

And laid his hand upon the stripling’s head,

“Peace be to thee! my words this belt[34] approve;

The paths of peace my steps have hither led:[33]

This little nursling, take him to thy love,

And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove.

XV.

“Christian! I am the foeman of thy foe;

Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace:[33]

Upon the Michigan, three moons ago,

We launched our pirogues for the bison chase,

And with the Hurons planted for a space,

With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk;

But snakes are in the bosoms of their race,

And though they held with us a friendly talk,

The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk.

XVI.

“It was encamping on the lake’s far port,

A cry of Areouski[35] broke our sleep,

Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation’s fort,

And rapid, rapid whoops came o’er the deep;

But long thy country’s war-sign on the steep

Appeared through ghastly intervals of light,

And deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep,

Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight,

As if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery fight.

XVII.

“It slept—it rose again—on high their tower

Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies

Then down again it rained an ember shower,

And louder lamentations heard we rise:

As when the evil Manitou[36] that dries

The Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire,

In vain the desolated panther flies,

And howls amidst his wilderness of fire:

Alas! too late, we reached and smote those Hurons dire!

XVIII.

“But as the fox beneath the nobler hound,

So died their warriors by our battle-brand;

And from the tree we, with her child, unbound

A lonely mother of the Christian land:—

Her lord—the captain of the British band—

Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay.

Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand;

Upon her child she sobbed, and swooned away,

Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Christians pray.

XIX.

“Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls

Of fever-balm and sweet sagamité:[37]

But she was journeying to the land of souls,

And lifted up her dying head to pray

That we should bid an ancient friend convey

Her orphan to his home of England’s shore;—

And take, she said, this token far away,

To one that will remember us of yore,

When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave’s Julia wore.

XX.

“And I, the eagle of my tribe,[38] have rushed

With this lorn dove.”—A sage’s self-command

Had quelled the tears from Albert’s heart that gushed;

But yet his cheek—his agitated hand—

That showered upon the stranger of the land

No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled

A soul that was not wont to be unmanned;

“And stay,” he cried, “dear pilgrim of the wild,

Preserver of my old, my boon companion’s child!—

XXI.

“Child of a race whose name my bosom warms,

On earth’s remotest bounds how welcome here?

Whose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms,

Young as thyself, and innocently dear,

Whose grandsire was my early life’s compeer.

Ah, happiest home of England’s happy clime!

How beautiful e’en now thy scenes appear,

As in the noon and sunshine of my prime!

How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time!

XXII.

“And, Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude now,

Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore?

Or thought I, in thy father’s house, when thou

Wert lightest hearted on his festive floor,

And first of all at his hospitable door

To meet and kiss me at my journey’s end?

But where was I when Waldegrave was no more?

And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend

In woes, that e’en the tribe of deserts was thy friend?”

XXIII.

He said—and strained unto his heart the boy;—

Far differently, the mute Oneyda took[39]

His calumet of peace, and cup of joy;[40]

As monumental bronze unchanged his look;

A soul that pity touched, but never shook;

Trained from his tree-rocked cradle[41] to his bier

The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook

Impassive[39]—fearing but the shame of fear—

A stoic of the woods—a man without a tear.

XXIV.

Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock

Of Outalissi’s heart disdained to grow;

As lives the oak unwithered on the rock

By storms above, and barrenness below;

He scorned his own, who felt another’s woe:

And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung,

Or laced his moccasins,[42] in act to go,

A song of parting to the boy he sung,

Who slept on Albert’s couch, nor heard his friendly tongue.

XXV.

“Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land

Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet.[39]

Oh! tell her spirit, that the white man’s hand

Hath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet;

While I in lonely wilderness shall greet

Thy little foot-prints—or by traces know

The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet

To feed thee with the quarry of my bow,

And poured the lotus-horn,[43] or slew the mountain roe.

XXVI.

“Adieu! sweet scion of the rising sun!

But should affliction’s storms thy blossom mock

Then come again—my own adopted one!

And I will graft thee on a noble stock:

The crocodile, the condor of the rock,[44]

Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars;

And I will teach thee, in the battle’s shock,

To pay with Huron blood thy father’s scars,

And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars!”

XXVII.

So finished he the rhyme (howe’er uncouth)

That true to nature’s fervid feelings ran;

(And song is but the eloquence of truth:)

Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man;[44]

But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey’s plan

In woods required, whose trainèd eye was keen

As eagle of the wilderness, to scan

His path, by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine,

Or ken far friendly huts on good savannahs green.

XXVIII.

Old Albert saw him from the valley’s side—

His pirogue launched—his pilgrimage begun—

Far, like the red-bird’s wing he seemed to glide;

Then dived, and vanished in the woodlands dun.

Oft, to that spot by tender memory won,

Would Albert climb the promontory’s height,

If but a dim sail glimmered in the sun;

But never more, to bless his longing sight,

Was Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage bright.

[29] See Notes at the end of the Volume.

[30] Scotland.

[31] The Gaelic appellation for the porpoise.

[32] A great whirlpool near the island of Jura.—See Notes.

[33] See Notes at the end of the Volume.

[34] The wampum, offered in token of amity.—See Notes.

[35] The Indian God of War.

[36] Spirit.—See Notes.

[37] A kind of soup.—See Notes.

[38] The Indians are distinguished both personally and by tribes by the

name of particular animals, whose qualities they affect to resemble,

either for cunning, strength, swiftness, or other qualities:—as the

eagle, the serpent, the fox, or bear.—See Notes.

[39] See Notes at the end of the Volume.

[40] _Calumet of peace._—The calumet is the Indian name for the

ornamented pipe of friendship, which they smoke as a pledge of amity.—See

Notes.

[41] _Tree-rocked cradle._—The Indian mothers suspend their children in

their cradles from the boughs of trees, and let them be rocked by the

wind.—See Notes.

[42] Moccasins are a sort of Indian buskin.

[43] From a flower shaped like a horn, which Chateaubriand presumes to be

of the lotus kind, the Indians in their travels through the desert often

find a draught of dew purer than any other water.

[44] See Notes.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. PART II.

I.

A valley from the river shore withdrawn

Was Albert’s home, two quiet woods between,

Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn;

And waters to their resting-place serene

Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene:

(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves;)

So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween)

Have guessed some congregation of the elves,

To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.

II.

Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse,

Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream;

Both were at evening Allegany views

Through ridges burning in her western beam,

Lake after lake interminably gleam:

And past those settlers’ haunts the eye might roam

Where earth’s unliving silence all would seem;

Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome,

Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home.

III.

But silent not that adverse eastern path,

Which saw Aurora’s hills the horizon crown;

There was the river heard, in bed of wrath

(A precipice of foam from mountains brown),

Like tumults heard from some far distant town;

But softening in approach he left his gloom,

And murmured pleasantly, and laid him down

To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom,

That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume.

IV.

It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had

On Gertrude’s soul, and kindness like their own

Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad,

That seemed to love whate’er they looked upon

Whether with Hebe’s mirth her features shone,

Or if a shade more pleasing them o’ercast,

(As if for heavenly musing meant alone;)

Yet so becomingly the expression past,

That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.

V.

Nor, guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,

With all its picturesque and balmy grace,

And fields that were a luxury to roam,

Lost on the soul that looked from such a face!

Enthusiast of the woods! when years apace

Had bound thy lovely waist with woman’s zone,

The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace

To hills with high magnolia overgrown,

And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone.

VI.

The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth,

That thus apostrophised its viewless scene:

“Land of my father’s love, my mother’s birth!

The home of kindred I have never seen!

We know not other—oceans are between:

Yet say! far friendly hearts, from whence we came,

Of us does oft remembrance intervene?

My mother sure—my sire a thought may claim;—

But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.

VII.

“And yet, loved England! when thy name I trace

In many a pilgrim’s tale and poet’s song,

How can I choose but wish for one embrace

Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong

My mother’s looks,—perhaps her likeness strong?

Oh, parent! with what reverential awe,

From features of thine own related throng,

An image of thy face my soul could draw!

And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw!”

VIII.

Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy;

To soothe a father’s couch her only care,

And keep his reverend head from all annoy:

For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,

Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair;

While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,

While boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air,

And woods a horizontal shadow threw,

And early fox appeared in momentary view.

IX.

Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,

Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore.

Tradition had not named its lonely spot;

But here (methinks) might India’s sons explore

Their fathers’ dust,[45] or lift, perchance of yore,

Their voice to the great Spirit:—rocks sublime

To human art a sportive semblance bore,

And yellow lichens coloured all the clime,

Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time.

X.

But high in amphitheatre above,

His arms the everlasting aloes threw:

Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove

As if with instinct living spirit grew,

Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue;

And now suspended was the pleasing din,

Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew,

Like the first note of organ heard within

Cathedral aisles,—ere yet its symphony begin.

XI.

It was in this lone valley she would charm

The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn;

Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm

On hillock by the palm-tree half o’ergrown:

And aye that volume on her lap is thrown,

Which every heart of human mould endears;

With Shakespeare’s self she speaks and smiles alone,

And no intruding visitation fears,

To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears.

XII.

And nought within the grove was heard or seen

But stock-doves ’plaining through its gloom profound,

Or winglet of the fairy humming bird,

Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;

When, lo! there entered to its inmost ground

A youth, the stranger of a distant land;

He was, to wit, for eastern mountains bound;

But late the equator suns his cheek had tanned,

And California’s gales his roving bosom fanned.

XIII.

A steed, whose rein hung loosely o’er his arm,

He led dismounted; ere his leisure pace,

Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,

Close he had come, and worshipped for a space

Those downcast features:—she her lovely face

Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame

Were youth and manhood’s intermingled grace:

Iberian seemed his boot—his robe the same,

And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.

XIV.

For Albert’s home he sought—her finger fair

Has pointed where the father’s mansion stood.

Returning from the copse he soon was there

And soon has Gertrude hied from dark green wood

Nor joyless, by the converse, understood

Between the man of age and pilgrim young

That gay congeniality of mood,

And early liking from acquaintance sprung;

Full fluently conversed their guest in England’s tongue.

XV.

And well could he his pilgrimage of taste

Unfold,—and much they loved his fervid strain,

While he each fair variety retraced

Of climes, and manners, o’er the eastern main.

Now happy Switzer’s hills,—romantic Spain,—

Gay lilied fields of France,—or, more refined,

The soft Ausonia’s monumental reign;

Nor less each rural image he designed

Than all the city’s pomp and home of human kind.

XVI.

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws;

Of Nature’s savage glories he would speak,—

The loneliness of earth that overawes,—

Where resting by some tomb of old Cacique,

The llama-driver on Peruvia’s peak,

Nor living voice nor motion marks around;

But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,

Or wild-cane arch high flung o’er gulf profound,[46]

That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.

XVII.

Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply

Each earnest question, and his converse court;

But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why

A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short.

“In England thou hast been,—and, by report,

An orphan’s name,” quoth Albert, “may’st have known.

Sad tale!—when latest fell our frontier fort,—

One innocent—one soldier’s child—alone

Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own.

XVIII.

“Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful years

These very walls his infant sports did see;

But most I loved him when his parting tears

Alternately bedewed my child and me:

His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;

Nor half its grief his little heart could hold:

By kindred he was sent for o’er the sea,

They tore him from us when but twelve years old,

And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled!”

XIX.

His face the wanderer hid—but could not hide

A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;—

“And speak! mysterious stranger!” Gertrude cried,

“It is!—it is!—I knew—I knew him well!

’Tis Waldegrave’s self, of Waldegrave come to tell!”

A burst of joy the father’s lips declare;

But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell:

At once his open arms embraced the pair,

Was never group more blest, in this wide world of care.

XX.

“And will ye pardon then,” replied the youth,

“Your Waldegrave’s feignèd name, and false attire?

I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth,

The very fortunes of your house inquire;

Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire

Impart, and I my weakness all betray;

For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire,

I meant but o’er your tombs to weep a day,

Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away.

XXI.

“But here ye live,—ye bloom,—in each dear face,

The changing hand of time I may not blame;

For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace,

And here of beauty perfected the frame:

And well I know your hearts are still the same—

They could not change—ye look the very way,

As when an orphan first to you I came.

And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray?

Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day?”

XXII.

“And art thou here? or is it but a dream?

And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us more?”—

“No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem

Than aught on earth—than e’en thyself of yore—

I will not part thee from thy father’s shore;

But we shall cherish him with mutual arms,

And hand in hand again the path explore,

Which every ray of young remembrance warms,

While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and charms!”

XXIII.

At morn, as if beneath a galaxy

Of over-arching groves in blossoms white,

Where all was odorous scent and harmony,

And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight:

There, if, oh, gentle Love! I read aright

The utterance that sealed thy sacred bond,

’Twas listening to these accents of delight,

She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond

Expression’s power to paint, all languishingly fond—

XXIV.

“Flower of my life, so lovely, and so lone!

Whom I would rather in this desert meet,

Scorning, and scorned by fortune’s power, than own

Her pomp and splendours lavished at my feet!

Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite

Than odours cast on heaven’s own shrine—to please—

Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet,

And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze,

When Coromandel’s ships return from Indian seas.”

XXV.

Then would that home admit them—happier far

Than grandeur’s most magnificent saloon,

While, here and there, a solitary star

Flushed in the darkening firmament of June,

And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon

Ineffable, which I may not portray;

For never did the hymenean moon

A paradise of hearts more sacred sway,

In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray.

[45] It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their

ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for

upwards of a century.

[46] The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are

said to be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger,

are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the

effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. PART III.

I.

O love! in such a wilderness as this,

Where transport and security entwine,

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,

And here thou art a god indeed divine.

Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine

The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire!

Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine!

Nor, blind with ecstasy’s celestial fire,

Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.

II.

Three little moons, how short! amidst the grove

And pastoral savannahs they consume!

While she, beside her buskined youth to rove,

Delights, in fancifully wild costume,

Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume;

And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;

But not to chase the deer in forest gloom;

’Tis but the breath of heaven—the blessed air—

And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.

III.

What though the sportive dog oft round them note,

Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;

Yet who in love’s own presence, would devote

To death those gentle throats that wake the spring,

Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?

No!—nor let fear one little warbler rouse;

But, fed by Gertrude’s hand, still let them sing,

Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs,

That shade e’en now her love, and witnessed first her vows.

IV.

Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce,

Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground,

Where welcome hills shut out the universe,

And pines their lawny walk encompass round;

There, if a pause delicious converse found,

’Twas but when o’er each heart the idea stole,

(Perchance a while in joy’s oblivion drowned)

That come what may, while life’s glad pulses roll,

Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul.

V.

And in the visions of romantic youth,

What years of endless bliss are yet to flow!

But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?

The torrent’s smoothness, ere it dash below!

And must I change my song? and must I show,

Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou wert doomed,

Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low!

When where of yesterday a garden bloomed,

Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloomed!

VI.

Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven,

When Transatlantic Liberty arose,

Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven,

But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes,

Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes;

Her birth star was the light of burning plains;[47]

Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows

From kindred hearts—the blood of British veins—

And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains.

VII.

Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote,

Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams,

Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,

That fills pale Gertrude’s thoughts, and nightly dreams?

Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams

Portentous light! and music’s voice is dumb;

Save where the fife its shrill reveillè screams,

Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,

That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstained fields to come.

VIII.

It was in truth a momentary pang;

Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe!

First when in Gertrude’s ear the summons rang,

A husband to the battle doomed to go!

“Nay meet not thou,” she cries, “thy kindred foe!

But peaceful let us seek fair England’s strand!”

“Ah, Gertrude! thy belovèd heart, I know,

Would feel like mine, the stigmatising brand!

Could I forsake the cause of Freedom’s holy band!

IX.

“But shame—but flight—a recreant’s name to prove,

To hide in exile ignominious fears;

Say, e’en if this I brooked,—the public love

Thy father’s bosom to his home endears:

And how could I his few remaining years,

My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child?”

So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers;

At last that heart to hope is half beguiled,

And, pale through tears suppressed, the mournful beauty smiled.

X.

Night came,—and in their lighted bower, full late,

The joy of converse had endured—when, hark!

Abrupt and loud a summons shook their gate;

And heedless of the dog’s obstreperous bark,

A form has rushed amidst them from the dark,

And spread his arms,—and fell upon the floor:

Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark;

But desolate he looked, and famished poor,

As ever shipwrecked wretch lone left on desert shore.

XI.

Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arched:

A spirit from the dead they deem him first:

To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parched,

From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed,

Emotions unintelligible burst;

And long his filmed eye is red and dim;

At length the pity-proffered cup his thirst

Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb,

When Albert’s hand he grasped;—but Albert knew not him—

XII.

“And hast thou then forgot,” he cried, forlorn,

And eyed the group with half indignant air,

“Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn

When I with thee the cup of peace did share?

Then stately was this head, and dark this hair

That now is white as Appalachia’s snow;

But, if the weight of fifteen years’ despair,

And age hath bowed me, and the torturing foe,

Bring me my boy—and he will his deliverer know!”

XIII.

It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,

Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew:

“Bless thee, my guide!”—but backward, as he came,

The chief his old bewildered head withdrew,

And grasped his arm, and looked and looked him through.

’Twas strange—nor could the group a smile control—

The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view:—

At last delight o’er all his features stole,

“It is—my own,” he cried, and clasped him to his soul.

XIV.

“Yes! thou recall’st my pride of years, for then

The bowstring of my spirit was not slack,

When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambushed men,

I bore thee like the quiver on my back,

Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;

Nor foeman then, nor cougar’s[48] crouch I feared,

For I was strong as mountain cataract:

And dost thou not remember how we cheered,

Upon the last hill top, when white men’s huts appeared?

XV.