Since I have seen thee, and again embraced.”
And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath;
But with affectionate and eager haste,
Was every arm outstretched around their guest,
To welcome and to bless his aged head.
Soon was the hospitable banquet placed;
And Gertrude’s lovely hands a balsam shed
On wounds with fevered joy that more profusely bled.
XVI.
“But this is not a time,”—he started up,
And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand—
“This is no time to fill the joyous cup,
The Mammoth comes,—the foe,—the Monster Brandt,[49]
With all his howling desolating band;—
These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine
Awake at once, and silence half your land.
Red is the cup they drink; but not with wine:
Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine!
XVII.
“Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,
’Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth:[50]
Accursed Brandt! he left of all my tribe
Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth:
No! not the dog, that watched my household hearth,
Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains!
All perished!—I alone am left on earth!
To whom nor relative nor blood remains,
No!—not a kindred drop that runs in human veins![50]
XVIII.
“But go!—and rouse your warriors;—for, if right
These old bewildered eyes could guess, by signs
Of striped and starrèd banners, on yon height
Of eastern cedars, o’er the creek of pines—
Some fort embattled by your country shines:
Deep roars the innavigable gulf below
Its squarèd rock, and palisaded lines.
Go! seek the light its warlike beacons show;
Whilst I in ambush wait for vengeance, and the foe!”
XIX.
Scarce had he uttered—when Heaven’s verge extreme
Reverberates the bomb’s descending star,—
And sounds that mingled laugh,—and shout,—and scream,—
To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar,
Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.
Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed;
As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar;
While rapidly the marksman’s shot prevailed:—
And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed.
XX.
Then looked they to the hills, where fire o’erhung
The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare;
Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung,
Told legible that midnight of despair.
She faints,—she falters not,—the heroic fair,—
As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed.
One short embrace—he clasped his dearest care—
But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade?
Joy, joy! Columbia’s friends are trampling through the shade!
XXI.
Then came of every race the mingled swarm,
Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass,
With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm,
As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass,
Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass,
Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines:
And first the wild Moravian yagers pass,
His plumed host the dark Iberian joins—
And Scotia’s sword beneath the Highland thistle shines.
XXII.
And in, the buskined hunters of the deer,
To Albert’s home, with shout and cymbal throng:—
Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,
Old Outalissi woke his battle song,
And, beating with his war-club cadence strong,
Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts,
Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long,
To whet a dagger on their stony hearts,
And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts.
XXIII.
Calm, opposite the Christian father rose,
Pale on his venerable brow its rays
Of martyr light the conflagration throws;
One hand upon his lovely child he lays,
And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways;
While, though the battle flash is faster driven,—
Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze,
He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven,—
Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven.
XXIV.
Short time is now for gratulating speech:
And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began
Thy country’s flight, yon distant towers to reach,
Looked not on thee the rudest partisan
With brow relaxed to love? And murmurs ran,
As round and round their willing ranks they drew,
From beauty’s sight to shield the hostile van.
Grateful, on them a placid look she threw,
Nor wept, but as she bade her mother’s grave adieu!
XXV.
Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower,
That like a giant standard-bearer frowned
Defiance on the roving Indian power.
Beneath, each bold and promontory mound
With embrasure embossed, and armour crowned,
And arrowy frieze, and wedgèd ravelin,
Wove like a diadem its tracery round
The lofty summit of that mountain green;
Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene,—
XXVI.
A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;
And for the business of destruction done
Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow:
There sad spectatress of her country’s woe!
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,
Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow
On Waldegrave’s shoulder, half within his arm
Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm!
XXVII.
But short that contemplation—sad and short
The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu!
Beneath the very shadow of the fort,
Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew,
Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew
Was near?—yet there, with lust of murderous deeds,
Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view,
The ambushed foeman’s eye—his volley speeds,
And Albert—Albert—falls! the dear old father bleeds!
XXVIII.
And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned;
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrowed from her father’s wound,
These drops?—Oh, God! the life-blood is her own!
And faltering, on her Waldegrave’s bosom thrown—
“Weep not, O Love!” she cries, “to see me bleed—
Thee, Gertrude’s sad survivor, thee alone
Heaven’s peace commiserate; for scarce I heed
These wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed.
XXIX.
“Clasp me a little longer on the brink
Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress:
And when this heart hath ceased to beat—oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe’s excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just.
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hopes of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage thy pangs—when I am laid in dust!
XXX.
“Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast
In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.
And must this parting be our very last?
No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.
XXXI.
“Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,—
And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,
If I had lived to smile but on the birth
Of one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none,
In future times—no gentle little one,
To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?
Yet seems it, e’en while life’s last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,
Lord of my bosom’s love! to die beholding thee!”
XXXII.
Hushed were his Gertrude’s lips! but still their bland
And beautiful expression seemed to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.
Mute, gazing, agonising as he knelt,—
Of them that stood encircling his despair,
He heard some friendly words; but knew not what they were.
XXXIII.
For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives
A faithful band. With solemn rites between,
’Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,
And in their deaths had not divided been.
Touched by the music, and the melting scene,
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:—
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen
To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud—
While woman’s softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.
XXXIV.
Then mournfully the parting bugle bid
Its farewell, o’er the grave of worth and truth;
Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid
His face on earth;—him watched, in gloomy ruth,
His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe
The grief that knew not consolation’s name:
Casting his Indian mantle o’er the youth,
He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came
Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!
XXXV.
“And I could weep;”—the Oneyda chief
His descant wildly thus begun:
“But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father’s son,
Or bow this head in woe!
For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!
To morrow Areouski’s breath
(That fires yon heaven with storms of death),
Shall light us to the foe:
And we shall share, my Christian boy!
The foeman’s blood, the avenger’s joy!
XXXVI.
“But thee, my flower, whose breath was given
By milder genii o’er the deep,
The spirits of the white man’s heaven
Forbid not thee to weep:—
Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father’s spirit grieve,
To see thee, on the battle’s eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun—thy heaven—of lost delight!
XXXVII.
“To-morrow let us do or die!
But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once-loved home?
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!
Cold is the hearth within their bowers!
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead!
XXXVIII.
“Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed?
And by my side, in battle true,
A thousand warriors drew the shaft?
Ah! there in desolation cold
The desert serpent dwells alone,
Where grass o’ergrows each mouldering bone,
And stones themselves to ruin grown,
Like me, are death-like old.
Then seek we not their camp,—for there—
The silence dwells of my despair!
XXXIX.
“But hark, the trump!—to-morrow thou
In glory’s fires shalt dry thy tears:
E’en from the land of shadows now
My father’s awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst—
He bids me dry the last—the first—
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi’s soul;
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!”
[47] Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil war.
[48] Cougar, the American tiger.
[49] Imaginary leader of those Mohawks, and other savages, who laid waste
this part of Pennsylvania.—See Notes.
[50] See Notes.
O’CONNOR’S CHILD; OR, THE “FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.”
O’CONNOR’S CHILD; OR, THE “FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.”
I.
Oh! once the harp of Innisfail[51]
Was strung full high to notes of gladness;
But yet it often told a tale
Of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gall,
When, for O’Connor’s child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion’s twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox’s den,
The lady in the desert dwelt;
And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt:
Say, why should dwell in place so wild,
O’Connor’s pale and lovely child?
II.
Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin’s hearts with beauty’s power,
As, in the palace of her sires,
She bloomed a peerless flower.
Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,
The royal brooch, the jewelled ring,
That o’er her dazzling whiteness shone,
Like dews on lilies of the spring.
Yet why, though fallen her brother’s kerne,[52]
Beneath De Bourgo’s battle stern,
While yet in Leinster unexplored,
Her friends survive the English sword;
Why lingers she from Erin’s host,
So far on Galway’s shipwrecked coast;
Why wanders she a huntress wild—
O’Connor’s pale and lovely child?
III.
And fixed on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness;
And wherefore do they then return
To more than woman’s mildness?
Dishevelled are her raven locks;
On Connocht Moran’s name she calls;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.
Placed in the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior’s cross!
That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shieling[53] door,
Enjoys that, in communion sweet,
The living and the dead can meet:
For, lo! to love-lorn fantasy,
The hero of her heart is nigh.
IV.
Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin’s yellow[54] vesture clad,
A son of light—a lovely form,
He comes and makes her glad;
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tasselled horn beside him laid;
Now o’er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade!
Sweet mourner! those are shadows vain
That cross the twilight of her brain;
Yet she will tell you she is blest,
Of Connocht Moran’s tomb possessed,
More richly than in Aghrim’s bower,
When bards high praised her beauty’s power,
And kneeling pages offered up
The morat[55] in a golden cup.
V.
“A hero’s bride! this desert bower,
It ill befits thy gentle breeding:
And wherefore dost thou love this flower
To call—‘My love lies bleeding?’”
“This purple flower my tears have nursed;
A hero’s blood supplied its bloom:
I love it, for it was the first
That grew on Connocht Moran’s tomb.
Oh! hearken, stranger, to my voice!
This desert mansion is my choice!
And blest, though fatal, be the star
That led me to its wilds afar:
For here these pathless mountains free
Gave shelter to my love and me;
And every rock and every stone
Bear witness that he was my own.
VI.
“O’Connor’s child, I was the bud
Of Erin’s royal tree of glory;
But woe to them that wrapt in blood
The tissue of my story!
Still as I clasp my burning brain,
A death-scene rushes on my sight;
It rises o’er and o’er again,
The bloody feud—the fatal night,
When chafing Connocht Moran’s scorn,
They called my hero basely born;
And bade him choose a meaner bride
Than from O’Connor’s house of pride.
Their tribe, they said, their high degree,
Was sung in Tara’s psaltery;[56]
Witness their Eath’s victorious brand,[57]
And Cathal of the bloody hand;
Glory (they said) and power and honour
Were in the mansion of O’Connor:
But he, my loved one, bore in field
A meaner crest upon his shield.
VII.
“Ah, brothers! what did it avail,
That fiercely and triumphantly
Ye fought the English of the pale,
And stemmed De Bourgo’s chivalry?[58]
And what was it to love and me,
That barons by your standard rode;
Or beal-fires[59] for your jubilee,
Upon a hundred mountains glowed?
What though the lords of tower and dome
From Shannon to the North Sea foam,—
Thought ye your iron hands of pride
Could break the knot that love had tied?
No:—let the eagle change his plume,
The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom;
But ties around this heart were spun,
That could not, would not, be undone!
VIII.
“At bleating of the wild watch-fold
Thus sang my love—‘Oh, come with me:
Our bark is on the lake, behold
Our steeds are fastened to the tree,
Come far from Castle Connor’s clans—
Come with thy belted forestere,
And I, beside the lake of swans,
Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer;
And build thy hut, and bring thee home
The wild-fowl and the honey-comb;
And berries from the wood provide,
And play my clarshech[60] by thy side.
Then come, my love!’—How could I stay?
Our nimble stag-hounds tracked the way,
And I pursued, by moonless skies,
The light of Connocht Moran’s eyes.
IX.
“And fast and far, before the star
Of day-spring, rushed we through the glade,
And saw at dawn the lofty bawn[61]
Of Castle Connor fade.
Sweet was to us the hermitage
Of this unploughed, untrodden shore;
Like birds all joyous from the cage,
For man’s neglect we loved it more.
And well he knew, my huntsman dear,
To search the game with hawk and spear;
While I, his evening food to dress,
Would sing to him in happiness.
But, oh, that midnight of despair!
When I was doomed to rend my hair:
The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow!
The night, to him, that had no morrow!
X.
“When all was hushed, at eventide,
I heard the baying of their beagle:
‘Be hushed!’ my Connocht Moran cried,
‘’Tis but the screaming of the eagle.’
Alas! t’was not the eyrie’s sound;
Their bloody bands had tracked us out;
Up-listening starts our couchant hound,
And, hark! again, that nearer shout
Brings faster on the murderers.
Spare—spare him—Brazil—Desmond fierce!
In vain—no voice the adder charms;
Their weapons crossed my sheltering arms:
Another’s sword has laid him low.
Another’s and another’s;
And every hand that dealt the blow—
Ah me! it was a brother’s!
Yes, when his moanings died away,
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o’er his burial turf they trod,
And I beheld—Oh God! Oh God!
His life-blood oozing from the sod!
XI.
“Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred,
Alas! my warrior’s spirit brave.
Nor mass nor ulla-lulla[62] heard,
Lamenting, soothe his grave.
Dragged to their hated mansion back,
How long in thraldom’s grasp I lay,
I knew not, for my soul was black,
And knew no change of night or day.
One night of horror round me grew;
Or if I saw, or felt, or knew,
’Twas but when those grim visages,
The angry brothers of my race,
Glared on each eye-ball’s aching throb,
And checked my bosom’s power to sob,
Or when my heart with pulses drear,
Beat like a death-watch to my ear.
XII.
“But Heaven, at last, my soul’s eclipse
Did with a vision bright inspire:
I woke and felt upon my lips
A prophetess’s fire.
Thrice in the east a war-drum beat,
I heard the Saxon’s trumpet sound,
And ranged, as to the judgment-seat,
My guilty, trembling brothers round.
Clad in the helm and shield they came;
For now De Bourgo’s sword and flame
Had ravaged Ulster’s boundaries,
And lighted up the midnight skies.
The standard of O’Connor’s sway
Was in the turret where I lay;
That standard with so dire a look,
As ghastly shone the moon and pale,
I gave, that every bosom shook
Beneath its iron mail.
XIII.
“‘And go!’ I cried, ‘the combat seek,
Ye hearts that unappallèd bore
The anguish of a sister’s shriek,
Go!—and return no more!
For sooner guilt the ordeal brand
Shall gasp unhurt, than ye shall hold
The banner with victorious hand,
Beneath a sister’s curse unrolled.’
O stranger! by my country’s loss!
And by my love! and by the cross!
I swear I never could have spoke
The curse that severed nature’s yoke,
But that a spirit o’er me stood,
And fired me with the wrathful mood;
And frenzy to my heart was given,
To speak the malison of heaven.[63]
XIV.
“They would have crossed themselves, all mute;
They would have prayed to burst the spell;
But at the stamping of my foot,
Each hand down powerless fell!
‘And go to Athunree!’[64] I cried,
‘High lift the banner of your pride!
But know that where its sheet unrolls,
The weight of blood is on your souls!
Go where the havoc of your kerne
Shall float as high as mountain fern!
Men shall no more your mansion know;
The nettles on your hearth shall grow!
Dead, as the green oblivious flood
That mantles by your walls, shall be
The glory of O’Connor’s blood:
Away! away to Athunree!
Where, downward when the sun shall fall,
The raven’s wing shall be your pall!
And not a vassal shall unlace
The vizor from your dying face!’
XV.
A bolt that overhung our dome
Suspended till my curse was given,
Soon as it passed these lips of foam,
Pealed in the blood-red heaven.
Dire was the look that o’er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw:
But now, behold! like cataracts,
Come down the hills in view
O’Connor’s plumèd partisans,
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans
Were marching to their doom:
A sudden storm their plumage tossed,
A flash of lightning o’er them crossed,
And all again was gloom!
XVI.
“Stranger! I fled the home of grief,
At Connocht Moran’s tomb to fall;
I found the helmet of my chief,
His bow still hanging on our wall,
And took it down, and vowed to rove
This desert place a huntress bold;
Nor would I change my buried love
For any heart of living mould.
No! for I am a hero’s child;
I’ll hunt my quarry in the wild;
And still my home this mansion make,
Of all unheeded and unheeding,
And cherish, for my warrior’s sake—
‘The flower of love lies bleeding.’”
[51] The ancient name of Ireland.
[52] The plural of kern—an Irish foot soldier.
[53] A rude hut, or cabin.
[54] Yellow, dyed from saffron, was the favourite colour of the ancient
Irish.
[55] A drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey.
[56] See Notes.
[57] Eath O’Connor defeated the English.
[58] See Notes.
[59] Fires lighted in honour of the sun on the hill tops by the
Irish.—See Notes.
[60] The Irish harp.—See Notes.
[61] Fortification—See Notes.
[62] The Irish wail for the dead.
[63] See Notes.
[64] An important battle was fought here, August 10, 1315, which decided
the subjection of Ireland.—See Notes.
THEODRIC; A DOMESTIC TALE.
THEODRIC; A DOMESTIC TALE.
’Twas sunset, and the “Ranz des Vaches” was sung,
And lights were o’er the Helvetian mountains flung,
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow,[65]
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below.
Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm,
Where, Phœnix-like, you saw the eagle’s form,
That high in Heaven’s vermilion wheeled and soared.
Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared,
From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin;[65]
Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between,
And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished green.
’Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air!
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare,
And roving with his minstrelsy across
The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss.[65]
Earth’s features so harmoniously were linked,
She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct,
That felt Heaven’s ardent breath, and smiled below
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow.
A Gothic church was near; the spot around
Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground;
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb.
Amidst them one of spotless marble shone—
A maiden’s grave—and ’twas inscribed thereon,
That young and loved she died whose dust was there:
“Yes,” said my comrade, “young she died, and fair!
Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid:
Her fingers witched the chords they passed along,
And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song:
Yet wooed, and worshipped as she was, till few
Aspired to hope, ’twas sadly, strangely true,
That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burned
And died of love that could not be returned.
“Her father dwelt where yonder castle shines
O’er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines.
As gay as ever, the laburnum’s pride
Waves o’er each walk where she was wont to glide,—
And still the garden whence she graced her brow,
As lovely blooms, though trod by strangers now.
How oft from yonder window o’er the lake,
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear,
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear!
Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland,
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land,
Why had no gallant native youth the art
To win so warm—so exquisite a heart?
She, midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong
By mountain-freedom—music—fancy—song,
Herself descended from the brave in arms,
And conscious of romance-inspiring charms,
Dreamt of Heroic beings; hoped to find
Some extant spirit of chivalric kind;
And scorning wealth, looked cold e’en on the claim
Of manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame.
“Her younger brother, sixteen summers old,
And much her likeness both in mind and mould,
Had gone, poor boy! in soldiership to shine,
And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine.
’Twas when, alas! our Empire’s evil star
Shed all the plagues, without the pride, of war;
When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish crossed
Our brave, to die in battles foully lost.
The youth wrote home the rout of many a day;
Yet still he said, and still with truth could say,
One corps had ever made a valiant stand,—
The corps in which he served—Theodric’s band.
_His_ fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by,
Eclipsed by brighter orbs in glory’s sky;
Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show
Our fields of battle twenty years ago,
Will tell you feats his small brigade performed,
In charges nobly faced and trenches stormed.
Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame,
And soldiers loved the march that bore his name:
The zeal of martial hearts was at his call,
And that Helvetian, Udolph’s, most of all.
’Twas touching, when the storm of war blew wild,
To see a blooming boy,—almost a child,—
Spur fearless at his leader’s words and signs,
Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines,
And speed each task, and tell each message clear,
In scenes where war-trained men were stunned with fear.
“Theodric praised him, and they wept for joy
In yonder house,—when letters from the boy
Thanked Heaven for life, and more, to use his phrase,
Than twenty lives—his own Commander’s praise.
Then followed glowing pages, blazoning forth
The fancied image of his Leader’s worth,
With such hyperbolés of youthful style
As made his parents dry their tears and smile:
But differently far his words impressed
A wondering sister’s well-believing breast;—
She caught the illusion, blest Theodric’s name,
And wildly magnified his worth and fame;
Rejoicing life’s reality contained
One, heretofore, her fancy had but feigned,
Whose love could make her proud;—and time and chance
To passion raised that day-dream of Romance.
“Once, when with hasty charge of horse and man
Our arrière-guard had checked the Gallic van,
Theodric, visiting the outposts, found
His Udolph wounded, weltering on the ground:—
Sore crushed,—half-swooning, half-upraised, he lay,
And bent his brow, fair boy! and grasped the clay.
His fate moved e’en the common soldier’s ruth—
Theodric succoured him; nor left the youth
To vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent,
And lent what aid a brother would have lent.
“Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart
The war-gazette’s dread blood-roll might impart,
He wrote the event to them; and soon could tell
Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well,
And last of all, prognosticating cure,
Enclosed the leech’s vouching signature.
“Their answers, on whose pages you might note
That tears had fallen, whilst trembling fingers wrote,
Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferred,
Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word,
Whose memory Time, they said, would never blot;
But which the giver had himself forgot
“In time, the stripling, vigorous and healed,
Resumed his barb and banner in the field,
And bore himself right soldier-like, till now
The third campaign had manlier bronzed his brow,
When peace, though but a scanty pause for breath,—
A curtain-drop between the acts of death,—
A check in frantic war’s unfinished game,
Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came.
The camp broke up, and Udolph left his chief
As with a son’s or younger brother’s grief:
But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose!
How light his footsteps crushed St. Gothard’s snows!
How dear seemed e’en the waste and wild Shreckhorn,
Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn
Upon a downward world of pastoral charms;
Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms,
And fragrance from the mountain-herbage blown,
Blindfold his native hills he could have known![66]
“His coming down yon lake,—his boat in view
Of windows where love’s fluttering kerchief flew,—
The arms spread out for him—the tears that burst,
(’Twas Julia’s, ’twas his sister’s, met him first:)—
Their pride to see war’s medal at his breast,
And all their rapture’s greeting, may be guessed.
“Ere long, his bosom triumphed to unfold
A gift he meant their gayest room to hold,—
The picture of a friend in warlike dress;
And who it was he first bade Julia guess.
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘’twas he, methought in sleep,
When you were wounded, told me not to weep.’
The painting long in that sweet mansion drew
Regards its living semblance little knew.
“Meanwhile Theodric, who had years before
Learnt England’s tongue, and loved her classic lore,
A glad enthusiast now explored the land,
Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand:
Her women fair; her men robust for toil;
Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil;
Her towns, where civic independence flings
The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings;
Her works of art, resembling magic’s powers,
Her mighty fleets, and learning’s beauteous bowers.—
These he had visited, with wonder’s smile,
And scarce endured to quit so fair an isle.
But how our fates from unmomentous things
May rise, like rivers out of little springs!
A trivial chance postponed his parting day,
And public tidings caused, in that delay,
An English jubilee. ’Twas a glorious sight;
At eve, stupendous London, clad in light,
Poured out triumphant multitudes to gaze;
Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze;
The illumined atmosphere was warm and bland,
And Beauty’s groups, the fairest of the land,
Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room,
In open chariots passed with pearl and plume.
Amidst them he remarked a lovelier mien
Than e’er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen;
The throng detained her till he reined his steed,
And, ere the beauty passed, had time to read
The motto and the arms her carriage bore.
Led by that clue, he left not England’s shore
Till he had known her: and to know her well
Prolonged, exalted, bound, enchantment’s spell;
For with affections warm, intense, refined,
She mixed such calm and holy strength of mind,
That, like Heaven’s image in the smiling brook,
Celestial peace was pictured in her look.
Hers was the brow, in trials unperplexed,
That cheered the sad, and tranquillised the vexed;
She studied not the meanest to eclipse,
And yet the wisest listened to her lips;
She sang not, knew not Music’s magic skill,
But yet her voice had tones that swayed the will.
He sought—he won her—and resolved to make
His future home in England for her sake.
“Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concern
To Cæsar’s court commanded his return,
A season’s space,—and on his Alpine way,
He reached those bowers, that rang with joy that day:
The boy was half beside himself,—the sire,
All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire,
Of speedy parting would not hear him speak;
And tears bedewed and brightened Julia’s cheek.
“Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride,
A month he promised with them to abide;
As blithe he trode the mountain-sward as they,
And felt his joy make e’en the young more gay.
How jocund was their breakfast-parlour fanned
By yon blue water’s breath,—their walks how bland!
Fair Julia seemed her brother’s softened sprite—
A gem reflecting Nature’s purest light,—
And with her graceful wit there was inwrought
A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought,
That almost child-like to his kindness drew,
And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew.
But did his thoughts to love one moment range?—
No! he who had loved Constance could not change!
Besides, till grief betrayed her undesigned,
The unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind,
That eyes so young on years like his should beam
Unwooed devotion back for pure esteem.
“True, she sang to his very soul, and brought
Those trains before him of luxuriant thought
Which only Music’s heaven-born art can bring,
To sweep across the mind with angel wing.
Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance,
She paused o’ercome: he thought it might be chance,
And, when his first suspicions dimly stole
Rebuked them back like phantoms from his soul.
But when he saw his caution gave her pain,
And kindness brought suspense’s rack again,
Faith, honour, friendship, bound him to unmask
Truths which her timid fondness feared to ask.
“And yet with gracefully ingenuous power
Her spirit met the explanatory hour;—
Even conscious beauty brightened in her eyes,
That told she knew their love no vulgar prize;
And pride, like that of one more woman-grown,
Enlarged her mien, enriched her voice’s tone.
’Twas then she struck the keys, and music made
That mocked all skill her hand had e’er displayed:
Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around,
She looked the very Muse of magic sound,
Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe,
Until the mind’s eye saw them melt and glow.
Her closing strain composed and calm she played,
And sang no words to give its pathos aid;
But grief seemed lingering in its lengthened swell,
And like so many tears the trickling touches fell.
Of Constance then she heard Theodric speak,
And steadfast smoothness still possessed her cheek;
But when he told her how he oft had planned
Of old a journey to their mountain land,
That might have brought him hither years before,
‘Ah! then,’ she cried, ‘you knew not England’s shore;
And, had you come,—and wherefore did you not?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it would have changed our lot!’
Then burst her tears through pride’s restraining bands,
And with her handkerchief, and both her hands,
She hid her face and wept.—Contrition stung
Theodric for the tears his words had wrung.
‘But no,’ she cried, ‘unsay not what you’ve said,
Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stayed;
To think I could have merited your faith,
Shall be my solace even unto death?’—
‘Julia,’ Theodric said, with purposed look
Of firmness, ‘my reply deserved rebuke;
But by your pure and sacred peace of mind,
And by the dignity of womankind,
Swear that when I am gone you’ll do your best
To chase this dream of fondness from your breast.’
“The abrupt appeal electrified her thought;—
She looked to Heaven, as if its aid she sought,
Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek,
And signified the vow she could not speak.
“Ere long he communed with her mother mild:
‘Alas!’ she said, ‘I warned—conjured my child,
And grieved for this affection from the first,
But like fatality it has been nursed;
For when her filled eyes on your picture fixed,
And when your name in all she spoke was mixed,
’Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind!
Then each attempt a likelier choice to find
Made only fresh-rejected suitors grieve,
And Udolph’s pride—perhaps her own—believe
That could she meet, she might enchant e’en you.
You came.—I augured the event, ’tis true,
But how was Udolph’s mother to exclude
The guest that claimed our boundless gratitude?
And that unconscious you had cast a spell
On Julia’s peace, my pride refused to tell:
Yet in my child’s illusion I have seen,
Believe me well, how blameless you have been:
Nor can it cancel, howsoe’er it end,
Our debt of friendship to our boy’s best friend.’
At night he parted with the aged pair;
At early morn rose Julia to prepare
The last repast her hands for him should make,
And Udolph to convoy him o’er the lake.
The parting was to her such bitter grief,
That of her own accord she made it brief;
But, lingering at her window, long surveyed
His boat’s last glimpses melting into shade.
“Theodric sped to Austria, and achieved
His journey’s object. Much was he relieved
When Udolph’s letters told that Julia’s mind
Had borne his loss firm, tranquil, and resigned.
He took the Rhenish route to England, high
Elate with hopes, fulfilled their ecstacy,
And interchanged with Constance’s own breath
The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith.
“To paint that being to a grovelling mind
Were like portraying pictures to the blind.
’Twas needful e’en infectiously to feel
Her temper’s fond and firm and gladsome zeal,
To share existence with her, and to gain
Sparks from her love’s electrifying chain,
Of that pure pride, which lessening to her breast
Life’s ills, gave all its joys a treble zest,
Before the mind completely understood
That mighty truth—how happy are the good!—
“E’en when her light forsook him, it bequeathed
Ennobling sorrow; and her memory breathed
A sweetness that survived her living days
As odorous scents outlast the censer’s blaze.
“Or if a trouble dimmed their golden joy,
’Twas outward dross, and not infused alloy:
_Their home_ knew but affection’s looks and speech—
A little Heaven, above dissension’s reach.
But midst her kindred there was strife and gall;
Save one congenial sister, they were all
Such foils to her bright intellect and grace,
As if she had engrossed the virtue of her race.
Her nature strove the unnatural feuds to heal,
Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal;
And though the wounds she cured were soon unclosed,
Unwearied still her kindness interposed.
“Oft on those errands though she went, in vain,
And home, a blank without her, gave him pain,
He bore her absence for its pious end.—
But public grief his spirit came to bend;
For war laid waste his native land once more,
And German honour bled at every pore.
Oh! were he there, he thought, to rally back
One broken band, or perish in the wrack!
Nor think that Constance sought to move or melt
His purpose: like herself she spoke and felt:—
‘Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woe
Except its loss!—but with you let me go
To arm you for, to embrace you from the fight;
Harm will not reach me—hazards will delight!’
He knew those hazards better; one campaign
In England he conjured her to remain,
And she expressed assent, although her heart
In secret had resolved _they_ should not part.
“How oft the wisest on misfortune’s shelves
Are wrecked by errors most unlike themselves!
_That_ little fault, _that_ fraud of love’s romance,
_That_ plan’s concealment, wrought their whole mischance.
_He_ knew it not preparing to embark,
But felt extinct his comfort’s latest spark,
When, midst those numbered days, she made repair
Again to kindred worthless of her care.
’Tis true she said the tidings she would write
Would make her absence on his heart sit light;
But, haplessly, revealed not yet her plan,
And left him in his home a lonely man.
“Thus damped in thoughts, he mused upon the past:
’Twas long since he had heard from Udolph last,
And deep misgivings on his spirit fell,
That all with Udolph’s household was not well.
’Twas that too true prophetic mood of fear
That augurs griefs inevitably near,
Yet makes them not less startling to the mind,
When come. Least looked-for then of human kind,
His Udolph (’twas, he thought at first, his sprite)
With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight.
How changed was Udolph! Scarce Theodric durst
Inquire his tidings,—he revealed the worst.
‘At first,’ he said, ‘as Julia bade me tell,
She bore her fate high-mindedly and well,
Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide,
And from the world’s compassion saved our pride;
But still her health gave way to secret woe,
And long she pined—for broken hearts die slow!
Her reason went, but came returning, like
The warning of her death-hour—soon to strike;
And all for which she now, poor sufferer! sighs,
Is once to see Theodric ere she dies.
Why should I come to tell you this caprice?
Forgive me! for my mind has lost its peace.
I blame myself, and ne’er shall cease to blame,
That my insane ambition for the name
Of brother to Theodric, founded all
Those high-built hopes that crushed her by their fall.
I made her slight a mother’s counsel sage,
But now my parents droop with grief and age;
And though my sister’s eyes mean no rebuke,
They overwhelm me with their dying look.
The journey’s long, but you are full of ruth;
And she who shares your heart, and knows its truth,
Has faith in your affection, far above
The fear of a poor dying object’s love.’
‘She has, my Udolph,’ he replied, ‘’tis true;
And oft we talk of Julia—oft of you.’
Their converse came abruptly to a close;
For scarce could each his troubled looks compose,
When visitants, to Constance near akin
(In all but traits of soul), were ushered in.
They brought not her, nor midst their kindred band
The sister who alone, like her, was bland;
But said—and smiled to see it gave him pain—
That Constance would a fortnight yet remain.
Vexed by their tidings, and the haughty view
They cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew,
Theodric blamed his Constance’s intent.—
The demons went, and left him as they went,
To read, when they were gone beyond recall,
A note from her loved hand, explaining all.
She said, that with their house she only staid
That parting peace might with them all be made;
But prayed for love to share his foreign life,
And shun all future chance of kindred strife.
He wrote with speed, his soul’s consent to say:
The letter missed her on her homeward way.
In six hours Constance was within his arms:
Moved, flushed, unlike her wonted calm of charms,
And breathless—with uplifted hands outspread—
Burst into tears upon his neck, and said,—
‘I knew that those who brought your message laughed
With poison of their own to point the shaft;
And this my one kind sister thought, yet loth
Confessed she feared ’twas true you had been wroth.
But here you are, and smile on me: my pain
Is gone, and Constance is herself again.’
His ecstasy, it may be guessed, was much:
Yet pain’s extreme and pleasure’s seemed to touch.
What pride! embracing beauty’s perfect mould;
What terror! lest his few rash words, mistold,
Had agonised her pulse to fever’s heat:
But calmed again so soon it healthful beat,
And such sweet tones were in her voice’s sound,
Composed herself, she breathed composure round.
“Fair being! with what sympathetic grace
She heard, bewailed, and pleaded Julia’s case;
Implored he would her dying wish attend,
‘And go,’ she said, ‘to-morrow with your friend;
I’ll wait for your return on England’s shore,
And then we’ll cross the deep, and part no more.’
“To-morrow both his soul’s compassion drew
To Julia’s call, and Constance urged anew
That not to heed her now would be to bind
A load of pain for life upon his mind.
He went with Udolph—from his Constance went—
Stifling, alas! a dark presentiment
Some ailment lurked, e’en whilst she smiled, to mock
His fears of harm from yester-morning’s shock.
Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out,
To watch at home, and follow straight his route,
If aught of threatened change her health should show:
With Udolph then he reached the house of woe.
“That winter’s eve how darkly Nature’s brow
Scowled on the scenes it lights so lovely now!
The tempest, raging o’er the realms of ice,
Shook fragments from the rifted precipice;
And whilst their falling echoed to the wind,
The wolf’s long howl in dismal discord joined,
While white yon water’s foam was raised in clouds
That whirled like spirits wailing in their shrouds:
Without was Nature’s elemental din—
And beauty died, and friendship wept, within!
“Sweet Julia, though her fate was finished half,
Still knew him—smiled on him with feeble laugh—
And blessed him, till she drew her latest sigh!
But lo! while Udolph’s bursts of agony,
And age’s tremulous wailings, round him rose,
What accents pierced him deeper yet than those?
’Twas tidings by his English messenger,
Of Constance—brief and terrible they were.
She still was living when the page set out
From home, but whether now was left in doubt.
Poor Julia! saw he then thy death’s relief—
Stunned into stupor more than wrung with grief?
It was not strange; for in the human breast
Two master-passions cannot co-exist,
And that alarm which now usurped his brain
Shut out not only peace, but other pain.
’Twas fancying Constance underneath the shroud
That covered Julia made him first weep loud,
And tear himself away from them that wept.
Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept,
Till, launched at sea, he dreamt that his soul’s saint
Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint,
O’er cataracts of blood. Awake, he blessed
The shore; nor hope left utterly his breast,
Till reaching home, terrific omen! there
The straw-laid street preluded his despair—
The servant’s look—the table that revealed
His letter sent to Constance last, still sealed—
Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear
That he had now to suffer—not to fear.
He felt as if he ne’er should cease to feel—
A wretch live-broken on misfortune’s wheel;
Her death’s cause—he might make his peace with Heaven,
Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven.
“The ocean has its ebbings—so has grief;
’Twas vent to anguish, if ’twas not relief,
To lay his brow e’en on her death-cold cheek.
Then first he heard her one kind sister speak:
She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear
With self-reproach to deepen his despair:
‘’Twas blame,’ she said, ‘I shudder to relate,
But none of yours, that caused our darling’s fate;
Her mother (must I call her such?) foresaw,
Should Constance leave the land, she would withdraw
Our House’s charm against the world’s neglect—
The only gem that drew it some respect.
Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke
To change her purpose—grew incensed, and broke
With execrations from her kneeling child.
Start not! your angel from her knee rose mild,
Feared that she should not long the scene outlive,
Yet bade e’en you the unnatural one forgive.
Till then her ailment had been slight or none;
But fast she drooped, and fatal pains came on:
Foreseeing their event, she dictated
And signed these words for you.’ The letter said—
“‘Theodric, this is destiny above
Our power to baffle; bear it then, my love!
Rave not to learn the usage I have borne,
For one true sister left me not forlorn;
And though you’re absent in another land,
Sent from me by my own well-meant command,
Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine
As these clasped hands in blessing you now join:
Shape not imagined horrors in my fate—
E’en now my sufferings are not very great;
And when your grief’s first transports shall subside
I call upon your strength of soul and pride
To pay my memory, if ’tis worth the debt,
Love’s glorying tribute—not forlorn regret:
I charge my name with power to conjure up
Reflection’s balmy, not its bitter cup.
My pardoning angel, at the gates of Heaven,
Shall look not more regard than you have given
To me; and our life’s union has been clad
In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e’er had.
Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast?
Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past?
No! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast,
There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest;
And let contentment on your spirit shine,
As if its peace were still a part of mine:
For if you war not proudly with your pain,
For you I shall have worse than lived in vain.
But I conjure your manliness to bear
My loss with noble spirit—not despair:
I ask you by our love to promise this,
And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss,—
The latest from my living lips for yours.’—
“Words that will solace him while life endures:
For though his spirit from affliction’s surge
Could ne’er to life, as life had been, emerge,
Yet still that mind whose harmony elate
Rang sweetness, e’en beneath the crush of fate,—
That mind in whose regard all things were placed
In views that softened them, or lights that graced,
That soul’s example could not but dispense
A portion of its own blessed influence;
Invoking him to peace, and that self-sway
Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away:
And though he mourned her long, ’twas with such woe
As if her spirit watched him still below.”
[65] See Notes at the end of the Volume.
[66] See Notes at the end of the Volume.
LOCHIEL’S WARNING.
LOCHIEL’S WARNING.[67]
WIZARD—LOCHIEL.
WIZARD.
Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight.
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
’Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin![68] to death and captivity led!
O weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead:
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.
LOCHIEL.
Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.
WIZARD.
Ha! laugh’st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed,—for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
’Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlement’s height,
Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood.
LOCHIEL.
False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan,
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one!
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland’s steed to the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock!
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array——
WIZARD.
——Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day;
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal;
’Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee, Culloden’s dread echoes shall ring
With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath,
Behold, where he[69] flies on his desolate path!
Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight:
Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!
’Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors:
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores.
But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished forlorn,
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn?
Ah no! for a darker departure is near;
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
His death-bell is tolling: oh! mercy dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accursed be the faggots, that blaze at his feet,
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale——
LOCHIEL.
——Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale:
For never shall Albin a destiny meet,
So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat.
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore,
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame
[67] See Notes at the end of the Volume.
[68] The Gaelic appellation of Scotland,—more particularly the Highlands.
[69] Charles Edward Stuart.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
I.
Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
II.
Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime;
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time.
III.
But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O’er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of oak!” our captain cried; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
IV.
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;—
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—
Then ceased—and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.
V.
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o’er the wave;
“Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save:—
So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England’s feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.”
VI.
Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun looked smiling bright
O’er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
VII.
Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities’ blaze,
While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep.
Elsinore!
VIII.
Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died;—
With the gallant good Riou:[70]
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o’er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls
And the mermaid’s song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
[70] Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord
Nelson when he wrote home his despatches.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND: A NAVAL ODE.
I.
Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To meet another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
II.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!—
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
III.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o’er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,—
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow:
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
IV.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger’s troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
TO THE RAINBOW.
Triumphal arch, that fill’st the sky
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art—
Still seem as to my childhood’s sight,
A midway station given
For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that Optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation’s face
Enchantment’s veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.
When o’er the green undeluged earth
Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world’s grey fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign.
And when its yellow lustre smiled
O’er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet’s theme!
The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshened fields
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast
O’er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.
THE LAST MAN.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its Immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulph of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation’s death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!
The Sun’s eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rested in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!
Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm passed by,
Saying, “We are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
’Tis Mercy bids thee go.
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
“What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;—
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownèd king of day:
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts.
“Go, let oblivion’s curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life’s tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.
“E’en I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death—
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!
“This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of Victory,—
And took the sting from Death!
“Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature’s awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste—
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,
On Earth’s sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!”
VALEDICTORY STANZAS To J. P. KEMBLE, ESQ. COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING,
_Held June, 1817_.
Pride of the British stage,
A long and last adieu!
Whose image brought the heroic age
Revived to Fancy’s view
Like fields refreshed with dewy light
When the sun smiles his last
Thy parting presence makes more bright
Our memory of the past;
And memory conjures feelings up
That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup
To Kemble—fare thee well!
His was the spell o’er hearts
Which only Acting lends,—
The youngest of the sister Arts,
Where all their beauty blends:
For ill can Poetry express
Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty actor brought,
Illusion’s perfect triumphs come,—
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.
Time may again revive,
But ne’er eclipse the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,
Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resigned entire
To the deep sorrows of the Moor,—
What English heart was not on fire
With him at Agincourt?
And yet a Majesty possessed
His transport’s most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of his breast
The Graces gave their zone.
High were the task—too high,
Ye conscious bosoms here!
In words to paint your memory
Of Kemble and of Lear;
But who forgets that white discrownèd head,
Those bursts of Reason’s half-extinguished glare—
Those tears upon Cordelia’s bosom shed,
In doubt more touching than despair,
If ’twas reality he felt?
Had Shakespeare’s self amidst you been,
Friends, he had seen you melt,
And triumphed to have seen!
And there was many an hour
Of blended kindred fame,
When Siddons’ auxiliar power
And sister magic came.
Together at the Muse’s side
The tragic paragons had grown—
They were the children of her pride,
The columns of her throne,
And undivided favour ran
From heart to heart in their applause,
Save for the gallantry of man,
In lovelier woman’s cause.
Fair as some classic dome,
Robust and richly graced,
Your Kemble’s spirit was the home
Of genius and of taste:—
Taste like the silent dial’s power,
That when supernal light is given,
Can measure inspiration’s hour
And tell its height in Heaven.
At once ennobled and correct,
His mind surveyed the tragic page,
And what the actor could effect,
The scholar could presage.
These were his traits of worth:—
And must we lose them now!
And shall the scene no more show forth
His sternly pleasing brow!
Alas, the moral brings a tear!—
’Tis all a transient hour below;
And we that would detain thee here,
Ourselves as fleetly go!
Yet shall our latest age
This parting scene review:—
Pride of the British stage,
A long and last adieu!
A DREAM.
Well may sleep present us fictions,
Since our waking moments teem
With such fanciful convictions
As make life itself a dream.
Half our daylight faith’s a fable;
Sleep disports with shadows too
Seeming in their turn as stable
As the world we wake to view.
Ne’er by day did Reason’s mint
Give my thoughts a clearer print
Of assured reality,
Than was left by Phantasy,
Stamped and coloured on my sprite,
In a dream of yesternight.
In a bark, methought, lone steering,
I was cast on Ocean’s strife;
This, ’twas whispered in my hearing,
Meant the sea of life.
Sad regrets from past existence
Came, like gales of chilling breath;
Shadowed in the forward distance
Lay the land of Death.
Now seeming more, now less remote,
On that dim-seen shore, methought,
I beheld two hands a space
Slow unshroud a spectre’s face;
And my flesh’s hair upstood,—
’Twas mine own similitude.
But my soul revived at seeing
Ocean, like an emerald spark,
Kindle, while an air-dropt being
Smiling steered my bark.
Heaven-like—yet he looked as human
As supernal beauty can,
More compassionate than woman
Lordly more than man.
And as some sweet clarion’s breath
Stirs the soldier’s scorn of death—
So his accents bade me brook
The spectre’s eyes of icy look,
Till it shut them—turned its head,
Like a beaten foe, and fled.
“Types not this,” I said, “fair spirit!
That my death-hour is not come?
Say, what days shall I inherit?—
Tell my soul their sum.”
“No,” he said, “yon phantom’s aspect,
Trust me, would appal thee worse,
Held in clearly measured prospect:—
Ask not for a curse!
Make not, for I overhear
Thine unspoken thoughts as clear
As thy mortal ear could catch
The close-brought tickings of a watch—
Make not the untold request
That’s now revolving in thy breast.
“’Tis to live again, remeasuring
Youth’s years, like a scene rehearsed,
In thy second life-time treasuring
Knowledge from the first.
Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver!
Life’s career so void of pain,
As to wish its fitful fever
New begun again?
Could experience, ten times thine,
Pain from Being disentwine—
Threads by Fate together spun?
Could thy flight Heaven’s lightning shun?
No, nor could thy foresight’s glance
’Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.
“Would’st thou bear again Love’s trouble—
Friendship’s death-dissevered ties;
Toil to grasp or miss the bubble
Of Ambition’s prize?
Say thy life’s new guided action
Flowed from Virtue’s fairest springs—
Still would Envy and Detraction
Double not their stings?
Worth itself is but a charter
To be mankind’s distinguished martyr.”
I caught the moral, and cried, “Hail!
Spirit! let us onward sail,
Envying, fearing, hating none—
Guardian Spirit, steer me on!”
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.
Pledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth!
Invincible romantic Scotia’s shore!
Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!
And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore!
And be it deemed not wrong that name to give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot’s sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?
And died he not as heroes wish to die?
Yes, though too soon attaining glory’s goal,
To us his bright career too short was given;
Yet in a mighty cause his phœnix soul
Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven!
How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain
One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn
For him!—How oft on far Corunna’s plain
Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!
Peace to the mighty dead!—our bosom thanks
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire!
Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia’s ranks,
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!
Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,
Dear symbol wild! on Freedom’s hills it grows,
Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world,
And Roman eagles found unconquered foes!
Joy to the band[71] this day on Egypt’s coast,
Whose valour tamed proud France’s tricolor,
And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,
Baptised Invincible in Austria’s gore!
Joy for the day on red Vimeira’s strand,
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,
First of Britannia’s host her Highland band
Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!
Is there a son of generous England here
Or fervid Erin?—he with us shall join,
To pray that in eternal union dear,
The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!
Types of a race who shall the invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;
Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquered as of yore!
[71] The 42nd Regiment.
STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING
THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME.
Brave men who at the Trocadero fell—
Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well
For Freedom,—and ye have not died in vain,
For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honour, ay embrace your martyred lot,
Cursing the Bigot’s and the Bourbon’s chain,
And looking on your graves, though trophied not,
As holier, hallowed ground than priests could make the spot!
What though your cause be baffled—freemen cast
In dungeons—dragged to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not withered in affliction’s blast—
The patriot’s blood’s the seed of Freedom’s tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,
Cowled Demons of the Inquisitorial cell!
Earth shudders at your victory,—for ye
Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell,
The baser, ranker sprung, _Autochthones_ of Hell!
Go to your bloody rites again—bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor’s pen,
Recording answers shrieked upon the rack;
Smile o’er the gaspings of spine-broken men;—
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den;—
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel
No eye may search—no tongue may challenge or reveal!
Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors!—Spain was free,
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnowed by the wings of Liberty;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts—influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution—show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn.
Glory to them that die in this great cause!
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:—
No!—manglers of the martyr’s earthly frame!
Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom’s vestal flame.
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.
SONG OF THE GREEKS.
Again to the battle, Achaians!
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;
Our land, the first garden of Liberty’s tree—
It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,
And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet’s slaves
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers’ graves.
Their spirits are hovering o’er us,
And the sword shall to glory restore us.
Ah! what though no succour advances,
Nor Christendom’s chivalrous lances
Are stretched in our aid—be the combat our own!
And we’ll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we’ve sworn by our Country’s assaulters,
By the virgins they’ve dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins.
That living, we shall be victorious,
Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.
A breath of submission we breathe not;
The sword that we’ve drawn we will sheathe not!
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide—waves engulph—fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:
If they rule, it shall be o’er our ashes and graves;
But we’ve smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us,
To the charge!—Heaven’s banner is o’er us.
This day shall ye blush for its story,
Or brighten your lives with its glory.
Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,
If a coward there be that would slacken
Till we’ve trampled the turban and shown ourselves worth
Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth.
Strike home, and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.
Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean;
Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon’s spring:
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,
That were cold and extinguished in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving arms,
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.
ODE TO WINTER.
When first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run;
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smiled with angel grace;
Rosy Summer next advancing,
Rushed into her sire’s embrace:—
Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe’s olive-shaded steep,
On India’s citron-covered isles:
More remote and buxom-brown,
The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale;
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature’s grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form:—
Till light’s returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume
And crystal-covered shield.
Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When frenzy with her blood-shot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity,
Archangel! power of desolation!
Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation
Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruined year;
Nor chill the wanderer’s bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch’s falling tear;—
To shuddering Want’s unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead,
And gently on the orphan head
Of innocence descend.
But chiefly spare, O, king of clouds!
The sailor on his airy shrouds;
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep.
Milder yet thy snowy breezes
Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine’s broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there
To many a deep and dying groan;
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.
Alas! ev’n your unhallowed breath
May spare the victim fallen low;
But man will ask no truce to death,—
No bounds to human woe.[72]
[72] This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the
conclusion of hostilities.
LINES SPOKEN BY MR. * * *, AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, ON THE FIRST OPENING OF
THE HOUSE AFTER THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817.
Britons! although our task is but to show
The scenes and passions of fictitious woe,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darkened every place,
And moistened with a tear the manliest face!
The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor’s piles,
That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles,
For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas!
That e’en these walls, ere many months should pass,
Which but return sad accents for her now,
Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow,
Cheered by the voice you would have raised on high,
In bursts of British love and loyalty.
But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn,
And Claremont’s home of love is left forlorn:—
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The ’scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt
A wound that every bosom feels its own,—
The blessing of a father’s heart o’erthrown—
The most beloved and most devoted bride
Torn from an agonizèd husband’s side,
Who “long as Memory holds her seat” shall view
That speechless, more than spoken last adieu,
When the fixed eye long looked connubial faith,
And beamed affection in the trance of death.
Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld,
As with the mourner’s heart the anthem swelled;
While torch succeeding torch illumed each high
And bannered arch of England’s chivalry.
The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall,
The sacred march, and sable-vested wall,—
These were not rites of inexpressive show,
But hallowed as the types of real woe!
Daughter of England! for a nation’s sighs.
A nation’s heart went with thine obsequies!—
And oft shall time revert a look of grief
On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above
On realms where thou art canonised by love!
Give to a father’s, husband’s bleeding mind,
The peace that angels lend to human kind,
To us who in thy loved remembrance feel
A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal—
A loyalty that touches all the best
And loftiest principles of England’s breast!
Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb—
Still in the Muse’s breath thy memory bloom!
They shall describe thy life—thy form portray;
But all the love that mourns thee swept away,
’Tis not in language or expressive arts
To paint—yet feel it, Britons in your hearts!
LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.
By strangers left upon a lonely shore,
Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless dead,
For child to weep, or widow to deplore,
There never came to his unburied head:—
All from his dreary habitation fled.
Nor will the lanterned fisherman at eve
Launch on that water by the witches’ tower,
Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave
Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower,
For spirits of the dead at night’s enchanted hour.
They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!
Whose crime it was, on life’s unfinished road
To feel the stepdame buffetings of fate,
And render back thy being’s heavy load.
Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed
In thy devoted bosom—and the hand
That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone
To deeds of mercy. Who may understand
Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?—
He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.
THE TURKISH LADY.
’Twas the hour when rites unholy
Called each Paynim voice to prayer,
And the star that faded slowly
Left to dews the freshened air.
Day her sultry fires had wasted,
Calm and sweet the moonlight rose;
E’en a captive spirit tasted
Half oblivion of his woes.
Then ’twas from an Emir’s palace
Came an Eastern lady bright:
She, in spite of tyrants jealous,
Saw and loved an English knight.
“Tell me, captive, why in anguish
Foes have dragged thee here to dwell,
Where poor Christians as they languish
Hear no sound of Sabbath bell?”
“’Twas on Transylvania’s Bannat,
When the Crescent shone afar,
Like a pale disastrous planet
O’er the purple tide of war—
“In that day of desolation,
Lady, I was captive made;
Bleeding for my Christian nation
By the walls of high Belgrade.”
“Captive! could the brightest jewel
From my turban set thee free?”
“Lady no!—the gift were cruel,
Ransomed, yet if reft of thee.”
“Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee
Christian climes should we behold?”
“Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee
Were thy ransom paid in gold!”
Now in heaven’s blue expansion
Rose the midnight star to view,
When to quit her father’s mansion
Thrice she wept, and bade adieu!
“Fly we then, while none discover!
Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!”
Soon at Rhodes the British lover
Clasped his blooming Eastern bride.
THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.
Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o’er:—
“Oh, whither,” she cried, “hast thou wandered, my lover?
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
“What voice did I hear? ’twas my Henry that sighed!”
All mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far,
When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar!
From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,
And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar!
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love, and that kindled in war!
How smit was poor Adelaide’s heart at the sight!
How bitter she wept o’er the victim of war!
“Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?”
“Thou shalt live,” she replied, “Heaven’s mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!”
“Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving!
No light of the morn shall to Henry return!
“Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!”
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,
When he sunk in her arms—the poor wounded Hussar!
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.
To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart,
Fulfilled the hero’s and the patriot’s part,—
Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoined,
Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined,—
This stone is reared: to public duty true,
The seaman’s friend, the father of his crew—
Mild in reproof, sagacious in command,
He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band,
And led each arm to act, each heart to feel,
What British valour owes to Britain’s weal.
These were his public virtues:—but to trace
His private life’s fair purity and grace,
To paint the traits that drew affection strong
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng,
And, more, to speak his memory’s grateful claim
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name—
O’ercomes the trembling hand of widowed grief,
O’ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief
Save in religion’s high and holy trust,
Whilst placing their memorial o’er his dust.
THE BRAVE ROLAND.[73]
The brave Roland!—the brave Roland!—
False tidings reached the Rhenish strand
That he had fallen in fight;
And thy faithful, bosom swooned with pain,
O loveliest maiden of Allémayne!
For the loss of thine own true knight.
But why so rash has she ta’en the veil,
In yon Nonnenwerder’s cloisters pale?
For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o’er her flung,
When the Drachenfells to a trumpet rung—
’Twas her own dear warrior’s horn!
Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed—shall break!
She would have hung upon his neck,
Had he come but yester-even;
And he had clasped those peerless charms
That shall never, never fill his arms,
Or meet him but in heaven.
Yet Roland the brave—Roland the true—
He could not bid that spot adieu;
It was dear still ’midst his woes;
For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air,
And to think she blessed him in her prayer,
When the Halleluiah rose.
There’s yet one window of that pile,
Which he built above the Nun’s green isle;
Thence sad and oft looked he
(When the chant and organ sounded slow)
On the mansion of his love below,
For herself he might not see.
She died!—He sought the battle plain;
Her image filled his dying brain,
When he fell and wished to fall:
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland, the flower of chivalry,
Expired at Roncevall.
[73] The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is
still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height, called the
Rolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the
habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his
mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account of his death.
Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery
must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the
romantic landscape of the Drachenfells, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful
adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands.
THE SPECTRE BOAT. A BALLAD.
Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn,
Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn.
One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of love,
Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet
above.
But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard’s dismal view,
And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love’s delicious hue.
What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shuddering, pale, and dumb,
Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come.
’Twas now the dead watch of the night—the helm was lashed a-lee,
And the ship rode where Mount Ætna lights the deep Levantine sea;
When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud,
Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud:—
“Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven!
Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven!”—
It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call,
Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent’s thrall.
You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight,
For the spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light;
Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand,
And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.
THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
If any white-winged Power above
My joys and griefs survey,
The day when thou wert born, my love—
He surely blessed that day.
I laughed (till taught by thee) when told
Of Beauty’s magic powers,
That ripened life’s dull ore to gold,
And changed its weeds to flowers.
My mind had lovely shapes portrayed,
But thought I earth had one
Could make e’en Fancy’s visions fade
Like stars before the sun?
I gazed, and felt upon my lips
The unfinished accents hang:
One moment’s bliss, one burning kiss,
To rapture changed each pang.
And though as swift as lightning’s flash
Those trancèd moments flew,
Not all the waves of time shall wash
Their memory from my view.
But duly shall my raptured song,
And gladly shall my eyes
Still bless this day’s return, as long
As thou shalt see it rise.
HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.
GLENARA.
O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
’Tis the chief of Glenara[74] laments for his dear;
And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.
Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around:
They marched all in silence,—they looked on the ground.
In silence they reached over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
“Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn:
Why speak ye no word!”—said Glenara the stern.
“And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?”
So spake the rude chieftain:—no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding a dagger displayed.
“I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,”
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
“And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!”
O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
’Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:
“I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief:
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!”
In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne—
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
[74] Maclean of Duart.
LINES ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST, FROM K. M——, BEFORE
HER MARRIAGE.
This wax returns not back more fair
The impression of the gift you send,
Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear
The image of your worth, my friend!
We are not friends of yesterday;—
But poet’s fancies are a little
Disposed to heat and cool (they say),—
By turns impressible and brittle.
Well! should its frailty e’er condemn
My heart to prize or please you less,
_Your_ type is still the sealing gem,
And _mine_ the waxen brittleness.
What transcripts of my weal and woe
This little signet yet may lock,—
What utterances to friend or foe,
In reason’s calm or passion’s shock!
What scenes of life’s yet curtained page
May own its confidential die,
Whose stamp awaits the unwritten page,
And feelings of futurity!
Yet wheresoe’er my pen I lift
To date the epistolary sheet,
The blest occasion of the gift
Shall make its recollection sweet;
Sent when the star that rules your fates
Hath reached its influence most benign—
When every heart congratulates,
And none more cordially than mine.
So speed my song—marked with the crest
That erst the adventurous Norman[75] wore,
Who won the Lady of the West,
The daughter of Macaillain Mor.
Crest of my sires! whose blood it sealed
With glory in the strife of swords,
Ne’er may the scroll that bears it yield
Degenerate thoughts or faithless words!
Yet little might I prize the stone,
If it but typed the feudal tree
From whence a scattered leaf, I’m blown
In Fortune’s mutability.
No!—but it tells me of a heart,
Allied by friendship’s living tie;
A prize beyond the herald’s art—
Our soul-sprung consanguinity!