“Quoi! vous allez combattre un roi, dont la puissance
Semble forcer le ciel de prendre sa defense,
Sous qui toute l’Asie a vu tombre ses rois
Et qui tient la fortune attachée à ses lois!”
Racine’s Alexandre.
“Squallent populatibus agri.” — CLAUDIAN.
As the host of the locusts in numbers, in might
As the flames of the forest that redden the night,
They approach: but the eye may not dwell on the glare
Of standard and sabre that sparkle in air.
Like the fiends of destruction they rush on their way,
The vulture behind them is wild for his prey;
And the spirits of death, and the demons of wrath,
Wave the gloom of their wings o’er their desolate path.
Earth trembles beneath them, the dauntless, the bold;
Oh! weep for thy children, thou region of gold;
For thy thousands are bow’d to the dust of the plain, —
And all Delhi runs red with the blood of her slain.
For thy glory is past, and thy splendour is dim,
And the cup of thy sorrow is full to the brim;
And where is the chief in thy realms to abide,
The “Monarch of Nations,” the strength of his pride?
Like a thousand dark streams from the mountain they throng,
With the fife and the horn and the war-beating gong:
The land like an Eden before them is fair,
But behind them a wilderness dreary and bare.
The shrieks of the orphan, the lone widow’s wail,
The groans of the childless, are loud on the gale;
For the star of thy glory is blasted and wan,
And wither’d the flower of thy fame, Hindostan!
GREECE.
“Exoritur clamorque virum, clangorque tubarum.” — VIRGIL.
WHAT wakes the brave of yon isle-throng’s wave?
And why does the trumpet bray?
And the tyrant groan on his gory throne,
In fear and wild dismay?
Why, he sees the hosts around his coasts
Of those who will be free;
And he views the bands of trampled lands
In a dreadful league agree.
“Revenge!” they call, “for one for all —
In the page of song and story
Be their name erased, and ours replaced
In all its pristine glory!
“Too long in pain has Slavery’s chain
Our listless limbs encumber’d;
Too long beneath her freezing breath
Our torpid souls have slumber’d.
“But now we rise — the great, the wise
Of ages past inspire us!
Oh! what could inflame our love of fame,
If that should fail to fire us?
“Let Cecrops’ town of old renown
Her bands and chieftains muster;
With joy unsheathe the blade of death,
And crush the foes who crush’d her!
“We come, we come, with trump and drum,
To smite the hand that smote us,
And spread the blaze of freedom’s rays
From Athens to Eurotas!”
THE MAID OF SAVOY.
DOWN Savoy’s hills of stainless white
A thousand currents run,
And sparkle bright in the early light
Of the slowly-rising sun:
But brighter far,
Like the glance of a star
From regions above,
Is the look of love
In the eye of the Maid of Savoy!
Down Savoy’s hills of lucid snow
A thousand roebucks leap,
And headlong they go when the bugles blow,
And sound from steep to steep:
But lighter far,
Like the motion of air
On the smooth river’s bed,
Is the noiseless tread
Of the foot of the Maid of Savoy!
In Savoy’s vales, with green array’d,
A thousand blossoms flower,
‘Neath the odorous shade by the larches made,
In their own ambrosial bower:
But sweeter still,
Like the cedars which rise
On Lebanon’s hill
To the pure blue skies,
Is the breath of the Maid of Savoy
In Savoy’s groves full merrily sing
A thousand songsters gay,
When the breath of spring calls them forth
the wing,
To sport in the sun’s mild ray:
But softer far,
Like the holy song
Of angels in air,
When they sweep along,
Is the voice of the Maid of Savoy!
IGNORANCE OF MODERN EGYPT.
DAY’S genial beams expand the flowers
That bloom in Damietta’s bowers;
Beneath the night’s descending dew
They close those leaves of finest hue:
So Science droops in Egypt’s land,
Beneath the Turkish despot’s hand;
The damps of Ignorance and Pride
Close up its leaves, its beauties hide:
The morrow’s rays her flowers may woo —
Is there no ray for Science too?
MIDNIGHT.
‘Tis midnight o’er the dim mere’s lonely bosom,
Dark, dusky, windy midnight: swift are driven
The swelling vapours onward: every blossom
Bathes its bright petals in the tears of heaven.
Imperfect, half-seen objects meet the sight,
The other half our fancy must portray;
A wan, dull, lengthen’d sheet of swimming light
Lies the broad lake: the moon conceals her ray,
Sketch’d faintly by a pale and lurid gleam
Shot thro’ the glimmering clouds: the lovely planet
Is shrouded in obscurity; the scream
Of owl is silenced; and the rocks of granite
Rise tall and drearily, while damp and dank
Hang the thick willows on the reedy bank.
Beneath, the gurgling eddies slowly creep,
Blacken’d by foliage; and the glutting wave,
That saps eternally the cold gray steep,
Sounds heavily within the hollow cave.
All earth is restless — from his glossy wing
The heath-fowl lifts his head at intervals;
Wet, driving, rainy, come the bursting squalls;
All nature wears her dun dead covering.
Tempest is gather’d, and the brooding storm
Spreads its black mantle o’er the mountain’s form;
And, mingled with the rising roar, is swelling,
From the far hunter’s booth, the blood-hound’s yelling,
The water-falls in various cadence chiming,
Or in one loud unbroken sheet descending,
Salute each other thro’ the night’s dark womb;
The moaning pine-trees to the wild blast bending,
Are pictured faintly thro’ the chequer’d gloom;
The forests, half-way up the mountain climbing.
Resound with crash of falling branches; quiver
Their aged mossy trunks: the startled doe
Leaps from her leafy lair: the swelling river
Winds his broad stream majestic, deep, and slow.
IN SUMMER, WHEN ALL NATURE GLOWS.
“Nature in every form inspires delight.” — COWPER.
IN summer, when all nature glows,
And lends its fragrance to the rose,
And tints the sky with deeper blue,
And copious sheds the fruitful dew;
When odours come with every gale,
And nature holds her carnival;
When all is bright and pure and calm,
The man whom nature’s beauties warm.
The glitt’ring tribes of insects gay,
Disporting in their parent-ray,
Each full of life and careless joy,
He views with philosophic eye:
For well he knows the glorious Hand,
That bade th’ eternal mountains stand,
And spread the vast and heaving main,
And studded heaven’s resplendent plain,
Gave life to nature’s humbler train.
Nor less admires his mighty pow’r
In the fine organs of a flow’r,
Than when he bids the thunder roll,
Rebellowing o’er the stormy pole;
Or launches forth his bolts of fire
On the lost objects of his ire;
Or with the yawning earthquake shocks
The reeling hills and shatter’d rocks,
And every mortal project mocks.
No skeptic he — who bold essays
T’ unravel all the mystic maze
Of the Creator’s mighty plan —
A task beyond the pow’rs of man;
Who, when his reason fails to soar
High as his will, believes no more —
No! — calmly thro’ the world he steals,
Nor seeks to trace what God conceals,
Content with what that God reveals.
SCOTCH SONG.
There are tears o’ pity, an’ tears o’ vvae,
An’ tears for excess o’ joy will fa’,
Yet the tears o’ luve are sweeter than a’!
There are sighs o’ pity, an’ sighs o’ wae,
An’ sighs o’ regret frae the saul will gae;
Yet the sighs o’ luve are sweeter than a’!
There’s the look o’ pity, the look o’ wae,
The look o’ frien’, an’ the look o’ fae;
Yet the look o’ luve is sweeter than a’!
There’s the smile o’ friends when they come frae far,
There’s the smile o’ joy in the festive ha’;
Yet the smile o’ luve is sweeter than a’!
BORNE ON LIGHT WINGS OF BUOYANT DOWN.
“Nunc mihi, nunc alii benigna.” — Horace.
BORNE on light wings of buoyant down,
Mounts the hoar thistle-beard aloft;
An air scarce felt can bear it on,
A touch propel, tho’ e’er so soft:
Dislodged from yonder thistle’s head,
Upon the passing gale it fled.
See! to each object on its way
A faithless moment it adheres;
But if one breeze upon it play,
Breaks its slight bonds and disappears:
Its silken sail each zephyr catches,
A breath its airy hold detaches.
The man who wins thy love awhile,
Should never dream it will remain;
For one fond word, one courteous smile,
Will set thy heart afloat again.
But he whose eye the light can chase,
That sports above the trembling vase,
Attend its roving sheen, pursue
Its rapid movements here and there,
And with a firm unwavering view
Arrest the fleeting phantom fair,
May fix inconstancy — ensure
Thy love, thy fickle faith secure!
How many have for many ask —
The kiss I fondly deem’d my own!
And hundreds in succession bask
In eye-beams due to me alone:
Tho’ all, like me, in turn must prove
The wandering nature of thy love.
Thou saw’st the glow-worm on our way,
Last eve, with mellow lustre shine —
Clad in pellucid flame she lay,
And glimmer’d in her amber shrine —
Would that those eyes of heavenly blue
Were half as faithful and as true!
And lo! the blush, quick mantling, breaks
In rich suffusion o’er thy cheek;
In sudden vermeil Conscience speaks,
No further, fuller proof I seek:
The rosy herald there was sent,
To bid thee own it and repent.
SONG: IT IS THE SOLEMN EVEN-TIME.
IT is the solemn even-time,
And the holy organ’s pealing:
And the vesper chime, oh! the vesper chime!
O’er the clear blue wave is stealing.
It is the solemn mingled swell
Of the monks in chorus singing:
And the vesper bell, oh! the vesper bell!
To the gale is its soft note flinging.
‘Tis the sound of the voices sweeping along,
Like the wind thro’ a grove of larches:
And the vesper song, oh! the vesper song!
Echoes sad thro’ the cloister’d arches.
THE STARS OF YON BLUE PLACID SKY.
“... supereminet omnes.” — VIRGIL.
THE stars of yon blue placid sky
In vivid thousands burn,
And beaming from their orbs on high,
On radiant axes turn:
The eye with wonder gazes there,
And could but gaze on sight so fair.
But should a comet, brighter still,
His blazing train unfold
Among the many lights that fill
The sapphirine with gold;
More wonder then would one bestow
Than millions of a meaner glow.
E’en so, sweet maid! thy beauties shine
With light so peerless and divine,
That others, who have charm’d before,
When match’d with thee, attract no more.
FRIENDSHIP.
“Neque ego nunc de vulgari aut de mediocri, quae tamen ipsa et delectat et prodest, sed de vera et perfecta loquor [amicitial qualis eorum, qui pauci nominantur, fuit.” — Cicero.
O THOU most holy Friendship! whereso’er
Thy dwelling be — for in the courts of man
But seldom thine all-heavenly voice we hear,
Sweet’ning the moments of our narrow span;
And seldom thy bright footsteps do we scan
Along the weary waste of life unblest,
For faithless is its frail and wayward plan,
And perfidy is man’s eternal guest,
With dark suspicion link’d and shameless interest!
‘Tis thine, when life has reach’d its final goal,
Ere the last sigh that frees the mind be giv’n,
To speak sweet solace to the parting soul,
And pave the bitter path that leads to heav’n:
‘Tis thine, whene’er the heart is rack’d and riv’n
By the hot shafts of baleful calumny,
When the dark spirit to despair is driv’n,
To teach its lonely grief to lean on thee,
And pour within thine ear the tale of misery.
But where art thou, thou comet of an age,
Thou phoenix of a century? Perchance
Thou art but of those fables which engage
And hold the minds of men in giddy trance.
Yet, be it so, and be it all romance,
The thought of thine existence is so bright
With beautiful imaginings — the glance
Upon thy fancied being such delight,
That I will deem thee Truth, so lovely is thy might!
ON THE DEATH OF MY GRANDMOTHER.
“Cui pudor et justitise soror
Incorrupta fides nudaque veritas,
Quando ullum invenient parem?”
HORACE.
THERE on her bier she sleeps!
E’en yet her face its native sweetness keeps.
Ye need not mourn above that faded form,
Her soul defies the ravage of the worm;
Her better half has so
ught its heavenly rest,
Unstain’d, unharm’d, unfetter’d, unopprest;
And far above all worldly pain and woe,
She sees that God she almost saw below.
She trod the path of virtue from her birth,
And finds in Heaven what she sought on earth;
She wins the smile of her eternal King,
And sings his praise where kindred angels sing.
Her holy patience, her unshaken faith,
How well they smooth’d the rugged path of Death!
She met his dread approach without alarm,
For Heaven in prospect makes the spirit calm.
In steadfast trust and Christian virtue strong,
Hope on her brow, and Jesus on her tongue;
Her faith, like Stephen’s, soften’d her distress —
Scarce less her anguish, scarce her patience less!
AND ASK YE WHY THESE SAD TEARS STREAM?
“Te somnia nostra reducunt.” — OVID.
AND ask ye why these sad tears stream?
Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?
I had a dream — a lovely dream,
Of her that in the grave is sleeping.
I saw her as ‘twas yesterday,
The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;
And round her play’d a golden ray,
And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.
With angel-hand she swept a lyre,
A garland red with roses bound it;
Its strings were wreath’d with lambent fire,
And amaranth was woven round it.
I — saw her mid the realms of light,
In everlasting radiance gleaming;
Co-equal with the seraphs bright,
Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.
I — strove to reach her, when, behold,
Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,
And all that rich scene wrapt in gold
Faded in air — a lovely vision!
And I awoke, but oh! to me
That waking hour was doubly weary;
And yet I could not envy thee,
Although so blest, and I so dreary.
ON SUBLIMITY.
“The sublime always dwells on great objects and terrible.” — BURKE.
O TELL me not of vales in tenderest green,
The poplar’s shade, the plantain’s graceful tree;
Give me the wild cascade, the rugged scene,
The loud surge bursting o’er the purple sea:
On such sad views my soul delights to pore,
By Teneriffe’s peak, or Kilda’s giant height,
Or dark Loffoden’s melancholy shore,
What time gray eve is fading into night;
When by that twilight beam I scarce descry
The mingled shades of earth and sea and sky.
Give me to wander at midnight alone,
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series Page 5