He bore aloft his lance,
All sheath'd in arms, unsufferably bright,
Where beamy splendors dance.
The western sun-beam round his helmit flies,
He more than man appears;
And more than mortal seem'd to sound the voice
That rang upon their ears.
"Ye sons of Norway! harken to my tale,
"Your rural games oh cease;
"Sivard is marching thro' Dulvellon's vale,
"Break off the sports of peace!
"The bloody Sivard leads his conqu'ring Swedes,
"He riots in our shame;
"The man, the matron, and the infant bleeds--
"Norway is but a name!
"The husband sees--curse on the tyrant's lust--
"He sees his beauteous bride--
"Her virtue, worth, and honor in the dust--
"Oh where is Norway's pride!
"Rouse! rouse Norwegians! take your arms amain,
"Let helms o'ershade each brow;
"Let's meet these Swedish daemons in the plain,
"And lay their triumphs low.
"O had you seen what these poor eyes have seen!
"'Twas Sivard done the deed--
"Our hoary monarch, and our helpless queen,
"I--yes, I saw them bleed.
"Their daughter Ella--no, I will not tell!
"Norwegians ne'er enquire--
"Ne'er hear it--what the royal maid befel;
"I see your souls on fire.
"Oh seize your swords, your spears, helms, and shields!
"Oh vindicate your fame!
"Sivard and Sweden glare on Norway's fields;
"Remember Norway's name."
He said--tears flow apace, fierce glow the swains,
Rage fills each honest breast;
In Swedish blood to wipe away their stains,
Was ev'ry thought address'd.
Then red-hair'd Rollo, fierce advancing cri'd,--
"Who'er thou art, come down,
"We live on hills, to ev'ry toil we're tri'd,
"And war is all our own.
"Let Sivard come, we'll meet the tyrant here:
"But stranger come thou down."
He came--Old Athold gaz'd with look severe;--
He gaz'd--but ceas'd to frown.
"Or Athold has forgot his monarch's face,
"Or sure thou art his son!
"Eric, of mighty Norway's royal race!"--
Full quick the tidings run.
With shouts they press to see the beauteous chief;
The aged kiss his hand:
On either side, fast roll'd the marks of grief,
Then Athold spoke the band--
"Ye sons of Norway, to your homes repair,
"There seize the sword and shield,
"And ere the morning's purple streaks the air,
"Meet Eric in the field.
"Oh prince! do you with aged Athold go,
"And take refreshing sleep;
"Athold will sing and soothe the rising woe,
"Or break his harp and weep!"
'Twas night--in Athold's hall each took his place;
Of other times he sung;
Fast stream'd the tears adown the hero's face,
And groans responsive rung.
Bright came the morn; and bright in batter'd arms,
The rustic vet'rans came:
And many a youth, untri'd in rough alarms,
Now hop'd a patriot's name.
They heard from far the hum of Sivard's host;
Young Eric struck his shield;
Then high in air his heavy spear he tost,
And blaz'd along the field.
Next aged Athold follow'd; Rollo strong;
Black Calmar lifts his mace;
Culullin, Marco, Streno, rush along,
And all the rugged race.
Fierce came the Swede;--in strength of numbers proud;
He scorn'd his feeble foe;
But soon the voice of battle roar'd aloud,
And many a Swede lay low.
Strong Rollo struck the tow'ring Olaus dead,
Full fifteen bleed beside:
Old Athold cleft the brave Adolphus head,
In all his youthful pride.
But Eric! Eric! rang'd the field around,
On Sivard still he cri'd;
The gasping Swedes lay heap'd upon the ground--
Sivard! the hills repli'd.
In fury Sivard seiz'd his shining shield,
His mail, his helm, and spear;
He mounts his car, and thunders o'er the field;
Now Norway knows no fear.
Great Rollo falls beneath his dreadful arm,
His steeds are stain'd with blood;
Young Eric smil'd to hear the loud alarm,
And flew to stop the flood.
He rag'd, he foam'd--fierce flew the thirsty spear,
Down fell the foremost steed:
Astonish'd Sivard felt unusual fear,
"Tyrant thou'rt doom'd to bleed!"
Up sprang the youth--deep fell the sword,
Sunk in the tyrant's brow:
Fast fly the Swedes, and leave their hated lord,
His mighty pride laid low.
Now Norway's sons their great deliv'rer hail,
But lo! he bleeds! he falls!
Old Athold strips the helm and beamy mail,
And on his Gods he calls.
He lifts the helm, and down the snowy neck
Fast falls the silky hair--
And could those limbs, the conq'ring Sivard check!
Oh pow'r of great despair!
Life ebbs apace--she lifts her languid head,
She strives her hand to wave;
Confess to all, the beauteous Ella said--
"Thanks, thanks companions brave:
"Freedom rewards you--naught can Ella give,
"Low, low poor Ella lies;
"Sivard is dead! and Ella wou'd not live."
She bleeds--she faints--she dies!
_N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y.
PEASANT OF THE ALPS.
Where cliffs arise by Winter crown'd,
And through dark groves of pine around,
Down the deep chasms, the snowed torrents foam,
Within some hollow, shelter'd from the storms,
The PEASANT of the ALPS his cottage forms,
And builds his humble, happy home.
Unenvied is the rich domain,
That far beneath him on the plain,
Waves its wide harvests and its olive groves;
More dear to him his hut, with plantain thatch'd,
Where long his unambitious heart attach'd,
Finds all he wishes, all he loves.
There dwells the mistress of his heart,
And _Love_ who teaches ev'ry art,
Has bid him dress the spot with fondest care;
When borrowing from the vale its fertile soil,
He climbs the precipice with patient toil,
To plant her fav'rite flow'rets there.
With native shrubs, a hardy race,
There the green myrtle finds a place,
And roses there, the dewy leaves decline;
While from the crags' abrupt and tangled steeps,
With bloom and fruit the Alpine berry peeps,
And, blushing, mingles with the vine.
His garden's simple produce stor'd,
Prepared for him by hands ador'd
Is all the little luxury he knows:
And by the same dear hands are softly spread,
The Chamois' velvet spoil that forms the bed,
Where in her arms he finds repose.
But absent from the calm abode
Dark thunder gathers round his road,
Wild raves the wind, the arrowy light'nings flash,
Returning quick the murmuring rocks among,
His faint heart trembling as he winds along;
Alarm'd he listens to the crash.
Of rifted ice!--Oh, man of woe!
O'er his dear cot--a mass of snow,
By the storm sever'd from the cliff above,
Has fall'n--and buried in its marble breast,
All that for him--lost wretch--the world possest,
His home, his happiness, his love!
Aghast the heartstruck mourner stands!
Glaz'd are his eyes--convuls'd his hands,
O'erwhelming anguish checks his labouring breath;
Crush'd by Despair's intolerable weight,
Frantic he seeks the mountain's giddiest height,
And headlong seeks relief in death.
A fate too similar is mine,
But I--in ling'ring pain repine,
And still my last felicity deplore;
Cold, cold to me is that dear breast become,
Where this poor heart had fondly fix'd its home,
And love and happiness are mine no more.
_N. Y. Mag., or Lit. Repos._, III-443, July 1792, N. Y.
ELLA. A TALE.
_Lady's Mag. and Repos._, I-97, Jan. 1793, Phila.
[Also in _N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, II-235, Apr. 1791, N. Y.]
A GENERAL VIEW OF SWITZERLAND AND THE ALPS,
WITH AN AFFECTING ANECDOTE.
* * * * *
But to return to our Alps. Here, savage rocks of an inaccessible
height; there, torrents bursting, as it were, from the clouds, and
rolling down the rugged precipices:
The gay train,
Of fog, thick roll'd into romantic shape,
may, perhaps, excite your wonder, but not exceed the compass of your
imagination. But how shall I convey to you an idea of the ever-varying
and accidental beauties of this majestic scenery! Sometimes the
vapour-winged tempest, flitting along some lonely vale, embrowns it
with a solemn shade, whilst every thing around glitters in the
fullness of meridian splendour. On a sudden, all is dark and gloomy;
the thunder rolls from rock to rock, till echo seems tired with the
dreadful repetition: add to this, the gradual approach of the evening,
the last gleam of sunshine fading on the mountain-brow, the lingering
twilight still warding off the veil of night, till the rising moon
just continues, in vision, a glimmering of its faded glories:
Now all's at rest--and ere the wearied swain
Rise to his labour on the upland lawn,
Shall not the muse from nature catch a strain,
To wake, and greet him at the morning dawn?
Oh! let her tell him that the feeling heart,
Oft to the mountain side by memory led,
Shall seek those blessings wealth can ne'er impart,
And wish to share the quiet of his shed:
Where ev'ry sordid passion lull'd to rest,
Man knows each gift of nature how to prize:
Flies from the storm unto his fair one's breast,
And there reposing waits serener skies.
Say, ye proud sons of fortune and of power,
Can aught the joys you feel, with these compare?
Can the full triumph of ambition's hour,
When tempests threaten, sooth your anxious care?
Or shall the tenant of yon lonely cot,
That smiles with pity on your pageant state,
Pleas'd with his poor but independent lot,
Expose the wretchedness of being great?
Unknown to you, the houseless child of woe,
The friendless pilgrim, or the hungry poor;
Unleft the good ye carelessly bestow,
The hand that feeds them, drives them from your door.
Here cruel charity no off'ring makes,
That whilst it aids, insults the big distress,
The heart that welcomes, ev'ry grief partakes,
And only pities where it can't redress.
Such are the scenes, my dear Lord, such the hospitality I am now going
to quit. I know not why I wished to jingle their virtues into rhyme,
unless it was, that my prose began to run upon stilts, or that I
mistook a momentary enthusiasm for a poetical inspiration. In fact,
every thought and conception is so far raised above the common train
of ideas, that the error is excusable, especially too when the
imaginary poet sets out with
Sublimi seriens sidera vertice.
* * * * *
Adieu,
Ever your's.
_Lady's Mag. and Repos._, I-253, May 1793, Phila.
A DUTCH PROVERB.
_Weekly Museum_, VII, Mar. 14, 1795, N. Y.
[Also in _Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.]
A DUTCH PROVERB.
_Phila. Minerva_, I, May 16, 1795, Phila.
[Also in _Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.]
VERSES BY THE LATE KING OF PRUSSIA.
_Rural Mag. or Vt. Repos._, I-494, Oct. 1795, Rutland.
[Same as _The Relaxation of War_ in _Amer. Mag. or Mo. Chron._, I-440,
June 1758, Phila.]
For the Weekly Museum.
THE GOTHIC CASTLE.
"The Days of Chivalry are gone."
Burke's Letter on the French Revolution.
See! now the landscape fades away,
As westward flies the orb of day:
See the solemn night appear,
With silence her sedate compeer.
Hark! the surgy shore resounds,
As from the rocks the wave rebounds:
Rocks, on whose o'er-hanging brows,
The ragged surf-fed samphire grows.
Lo! the beacon's distant rays
O'er the waste of water plays,
Friendly to the port-bound bark,
On his watch, the seaman's mark.
Mark! yon dreary Gothic pile,
--Where murder oft did glut and smile,--
Dungeons dire of vanquish'd hosts,
--Hark! the screams of wandering ghosts!--
Now a double gloom is spread
O'er each turret's murky head,
While from th' Owlet's dismal cry
Intruding joys affrighted fly.
Ye vengeful walls for ruin built!
Scenes accurs'd of hell-born guilt!
Direful were your fierce alarms--
Hist! the sentry calls--"To arms!"
How many barons here were slain,
In coats of armour lock'd in vain!--
How many feudal vassals dy'd,
Ebbing here life's crimson tide!
What secret woes lay close immur'd!
What anguish wretches erst endur'd!
When in your sable cells confin'd
Oppression's chosen victims pin'd.
How sullen stands yon rugged tow'r!
Seems it not on the cot to low'r?
As it looks, with proud disdain,
O'er the wide-extended plain.
Here the feudal times I trace;
The lordling's power--the poor's disgrace--
Here while it moulders, all may see
"A Monument of Chivalry."
Aug. 13, 1796.
ORLANDO.
_Weekly Museum_, IX, Aug. 13, 1796, N. Y.
PEASANT OF THE ALPS.
_Phila. Minerva_, III, Aug. 19, 1797, Phila.
[Also in _N. Y. Mag. or Lit. Repos._, III-443, July 1792, N. Y.]
BY THE LATE KING OF PRUSSIA.
_Rural Mag._, I, July 21, 1798, Newark.
[Same as _The Relaxation of War_ in _Amer. Mag. or Mo. Chron._, I-440,
June 1758, Phila.]
THE WATER-KING.
A Danish Ballad. By the Author of Alonzo the Brave.
[The poem follows.]
Since writing these stanzas, I have met with two old Scotch ballads
which have some resemblance with "The Water King"; one is called "May
Colvin," and relates the story of a king's daughter who was beguiled
from her father's house by a false Sir John; the other, intitled
"Clerk Colvil," treats of a young man who fell into the snares of a
false mermaid; the latter, indeed, bears a still stranger resemblance
to the Danish tradition of "The Erl-King's Daughter." The fragment of
"The Water King" may be found in "Herder's Volkslieder."
Many inquiries have been made respecting the elementary monarchs
mentioned a few pages back; I must inform my readers that all I know
respecting the Water King (called in the German translation "Der
Wasser-Mann") and the Erl-King (called in German Erlkoenig) is gathered
from the foregoing ballad and two others which I shall here insert.
With respect to the Fire King and the Cloud King, they are entirely of
my own creation; but if my readers choose to ascribe their birth to
the "Comte de Gabalis," they are very welcome.
_Weekly Mag._, III-92, Aug. 18, 1798, Phila.
[J. G. Herder, _Der Wassermann_ in the Fourth Book (_Nordische
Lieder_) of _Stimmen der Voelker in Liedern_. Trans. from the German.
M. G. Lewis, _The Monk_ and _Tales of Wonder_. Cf. note to _The
Erl-King_ in _Weekly Mag._, III-93, Aug. 18, 1798.]
WERTER'S FAREWELL TO CHARLOTTE.
"Sunt lacrimae rerum; et mentem mortalia tangunt."
Virg. Ae. I-466.
The conflict's o'er--ah! lovely maid, adieu!
Before these sad, these parting lines, you view;
Before the fields with early dawn shall bloom,
Your Werter rests beneath the silent tomb:
No more to view the beauties of the day,
No more to listen to thy heavenly lay,
To sit, in transport, and to hear thee talk,
Or with thee wander, in an ev'ning walk,
Along the margin of the winding flood,
Thro' the green fields, or in the shady wood.
O! Charlotte! when you see the floods arise,
And wintry storms descending from the skies,
The wat'ry gloom that fills the plain below,
And all around one dreary waste of snow;
Will you not then, a sigh in sorrow heave,
For the lost pleasures of a summer's eve,
Recall the time when you so oft have seen
Thy hapless lover on the verdant green,
Or thro' the vale approaching from the grove,
To view thy charms and pine in hopeless love,
Gaze on thy angel form, for without she,
The world appear'd a boundless blank to me.
As when to seamen, from the midnight skies
The moon's bright beams in brilliant glory rise,
To guide them wand'ring thro' the wat'ry plain,
Or land them on their native shores again;
Thus, Charlotte, I no other joy could see,
Than pass the vacant day, and gaze on thee,
Live in thy joys, or in thy sorrows die,
"And drink delicious poison from thine eye,"
As the lost insect round the taper flies,
And courts the fatal flame by which it dies.
But, Charlotte, now those fleeting joys are fled,
And Werter sinks among the silent dead
From the bright hopes of life forever gone,
His mem'ry lost, and e'en his name unknown,
The time shall come, when in the vacant mind,
The fondest friend no trace of me shall find;
When e'en my kindred my sad fate shall hear,
And view my mould'ring grave without a tear,
Think on the light impressions of the mind,
Which flee as midnight dreams, and leave no trace behind.
This eve I wander'd thro' each beauteous scene,
Each fertile valley, and each level green,
Pensive and sad I view'd the foaming flood;
And the wild winds disturb the silent wood.
Beheld the sun's great orb, in glory bright,
Descend behind the western surge in night;
While on the hill to see its beams, I stood,
And view'd it sinking in the briny flood,
I felt my heart with double sorrows prest,
And life's last hope desert my throbbing breast;
The world's vast scene forever clos'd from sight,
And all involv'd in one eternal night.
Ah! shall I ne'er again thy image know,
In these sad realms of misery and woe,
Or is there yet a place in heaven design'd,
For hapless mortals by th' eternal mind,
Some winding valley, or some shady grove,
Some blissful mansions in the realms above,
Where Charlotte's shade and mine may one day meet,
Our suff'rings ended and our bliss complete,
In the bright regions of eternal light,
Where all is perfect joy and pure delight.
When in the summer's eve you chance to stray
Thro' the low vale, or on the broad highway,
Or in the churchyard, thro' the shady trees,
You hear the whistling of the midnight breeze,
Wave high the grass, in solitary gloom,
Around the heap that shews thy lover's tomb--
Ah, then will you not one sad thought bestow,
On him who could no greater blessing know
Than pass the hour with fleeting joys with thee,
Gaze on thy charms and watch thy wand'ring eye,
Observe the beauteous image of thy mind,
Disclose a soul for heaven alone design'd,
Or view thy distant form amidst the trees,
And thy white tresses floating in the breeze;
Or see thy fingers strike, with tender lays,
Such notes as bards in heaven alone can raise;
Such notes as Orpheus' self might lean to hear,
And force from Pluto's soul the melting tear.
Yes, Charlotte's self, my sad remains shall see,
And Charlotte's tender heart will heave a sigh for me.
_Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 20, Nov. 24, 1798, [Phila.].
The following burlesque on the style, in which most of the German
romantic ballads are written, is replete with wit and humour; and we
trust will prove amusing even to the greatest admirers of that style
of writing. It is only necessary to premise that Lord Hoppergallop has
left his servant maid at his country mansion, where she has fallen
with the gardener.
Cold blows the blast:--the night's obscure:
The mansion's crazy wainscots crack:
The sun had sunk:--and all the moor,
Like ev'ry other moor--was black.
Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,
The lovely Molly Dumpling sat,
Much did she fear, and much admire,
What Thomas, gard'ner could be at.
Listening, her hand supports her chin,
But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:
He comes not, from the garden, in;
Nor he, nor little Bobtail cur.
They cannot come, sweet maid, to thee!
Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!
And what's impossible, can't be;
And never, never, comes to pass!
She paces through the hall antique,
To call her Thomas from his toil;
Opes the huge door;--the hinges creak,--
Because the hinges wanted oil.
Thrice on the threshold of the hall,
She "Thomas" cried, with many a sob;
And thrice on Bobtail did she call,
Exclaiming sweetly--"Bob! Bob! Bob!"
Vain maid! a gard'ners corpse, 'tis said
In answers can but ill succeed;
And, dogs that hear when they are dead
Are very cunning dogs, indeed!
Back through the hall she bent her way,
All, all was solitude around!
The candle shed a feeble ray--
Though a large mould of four to th' pound.
Full closely to the fire she drew;
Adown her cheek a salt tear stole,
When, lo! a coffin out there flew,
And in her apron burnt a hole!
Spiders their busy death watch tick'd;
A certain sign that fate will frown;
The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click'd;
A certain sign it was not down.
More strong and strong her terrors rose;--
Her shadow did the maid appal;--
She trembled at her lovely nose--
It look'd so long against the wall.
Up to her chamber, damp and cold,
She clim'd lord Hoppergallop's stair;--
Three stories high, long, dull and old--
As great lords' stories often are.
All Nature now appear'd to pause;
And "o'er the one half world seem'd dead;"
No "curtain'd sleep" had she;--because
She had no curtains to her bed.
Listening she lay;--with iron din,
The clock struck twelve; the door flew wide;
When Thomas grimly glided in,
With little Bobtail by his side.
Tall, like the poplar, was his size;
Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks,
Red, red as beet root, were his eyes;
And, pale, as turnips, were his cheeks!
Soon as the spectre she espied,
The fear struck damsel faintly said,
"What would my Thomas?"--he replied,
"O! Molly Dumpling! I am dead."
"All in the flower of youth I fell,
Cut off with health's full blossom crown'd;
I was not ill--but in the well
I tumbled backwards, and was drown'd.
"Four fathom deep thy love doth lie;
His faithful dog his fate doth share;
We're friends;--this is not he and I;
We are not here--for we are there.
"Yes;--two foul water fiends are we;
Maid of the moor! attend us now!
Thy hour's at hand;--we come for thee!
The little fiend cur said "bow wow!"
"To wind her in her cold grave,
A Holland sheet a maiden likes;
A sheet of water thou shalt have;
Such sheets there are in Holland dykes."
The fiends approach; the maid did shrink;
Swift through the night's foul air they spin;
They took her to the green well's brink,
And, with a souse, they plump'd her in.
_Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 27, Jan. 12, 1799, Phila.
[The author evidently had Buerger's _Lenore_ in mind when writing the
above.]
[Burlesque on the Style, in which most of the German romantic Ballads
are written.]
_Phil. Repos._, I-328, Aug. 22, 1801, Phila.
[Also in _Dessert to the True American_, I-No. 27, Jan. 12, 1799,
Phila.]
For the Port Folio.
AN AUTHOR'S EVENINGS.
From the shop of Messrs. Colon and Spondee.
Among the newest and most delightful miscellanies, lately received
from England, may be ranked a poetical work, entitled "_Tales of
Terror_." This is partly intended as a burlesque of the various
ballads in Lewis's celebrated romance, "_The Monk_." We well remember,
that this member of the British parliament has amused himself, and
alarmed his readers, by resorting to the cells of Gothic superstition,
and invoking all the forms of German horror, to appal every timid
heart. Hence, we have been haunted by ghosts of all complexions; and
"_Cloud Kings_," and "_Water Kings_," and "_Fire Kings_," have been
crowned by this poetical magician, to rule with despotism in the
realms of Fancy. A lively satirist, endowed with the gifts of Genius,
easy in versification, pleasant in his humour, and inimitably
successful in parody, has, in some of his "_Tales of Terror_"
undertaken to mock the doleful tones of Mr. Lewis's muse, or shall we
rather say the hoarse caw of the German raven. The midnight hour has
been beguiled, by transcribing the following sarcasm, founded on a
well-known nursery story, and our readers will thank us for sitting up
so late for their amusement.
THE WOLF KING;
OR
LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.
An Old Woman's Tale.
Veteres avias tibi de pulmone revello _Persius_.
Translated from the Danish of the author of the Water King, etc., and
respectfully inscribed to M. G. Lewis, Esq., M.P., as an humble
attempt to imitate his excellent version of that celebrated ballad.
The birds they sung, the morning smil'd
The mother kiss'd her darling child,
And said ... "My dear, take custards three,
And carry to your grandmummie."
The pretty maid had on her head
A little riding hood of red,
And as she pass'd the lonely wood,
They call'd her small red riding hood.
Her basket on her arm she hung,
And as she went thus artless sung:
"A lady lived beneath a hill,
Who if not gone, resides there still."
The wolf king saw her pass along,
He ey'd her custards heard her song,
And cried "That child and custards three
This evening shall my supper be!"
Now swift the maid pursu'd her way,
And heedless trill'd her plaintive lay;
Nor had she pass'd the murky wood,
When lo! the wolf king near her stood.
"Oh! stop my pretty child so gay!
Oh! whither do you bend your way?"
"My little self and custards three
Are going to my grandmummie."
"While you by yonder mountain go,
On which the azure blue bells grow,
I'll take this road; then haste thee, dear,
Or I before you will be there.
"And when our racing shall be done,
A kiss you forfeit, if I've won;
Your prize shall be, if first you come,
Some barley sugar and a plumb."
"Oh! thank you, good sir Wolf," said she,
And dropt a pretty courtesie:
The little maid then onward hied,
And sought the blue bell mountain side.
The wolf sped on o'er marsh and moor,
And faintly tapp'd at granny's door:
"Oh! let me in, grandmummy good,
For I am small red riding hood."