'^f I 9. •■'/^, i'^4># V i '.m. • • -^^ ■^:-'Wfe <-i>„vAV 'i ■^ •J 1 i } J 1 ■V>':.«'€ M r>.'-i*v mmm tV V,^ ^^^= '« mi K Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924105428639 '^i^:ii^»^/-'^ lui / •/^u^n^' 'lyL //^/>^^ '> ON THE JUNGFRAU, BY MOONLIGHT. The maiden moon is restino; The maiden mount above, They gaze upon each other, With cold majestic love. . So I and Thou, sweet sister, Upon each other gaze, * Our love was warm, but sorrow Has shorn it of its rays. As in the hazy heav'ji That gentle Orb appears, Thou lookest in my face, Tearful^r— not shedding tears. THE JUNGFRAU. Like thine, her face is pale, But from within a Hght, Mild-gleaming as thy spirit, Comes out upon the night, And casts a tender sheen On that pale hill beneath, Pale ! as my heart, which wears The dull- white hue of Death. e *» C MONT BLANC. Mount ! I have watcht thee, at the fall' of dew,' Array thee in thy panoply of gold, — And then cast over it thy rosy vest, — And last that awful robe that looks so cold, Thy ghastly spectre-dress of nameless hue : Then thou art least of earth, and then. I love thee best. WRITTEN IN THE MOUNTAINS OF THE TYROL. A Hea.rt the world of men had bound and sealed With shameful stamp and miserable chain, Here, mother Nature, is to Thee revealed, Open to Thee ; oh ! be it not in vain. Flow over it, ye Torrents, — though I fear. That be your course as fierce as e'er it may, The sorrow-stains engrained there many a year Your force can never, never, wash away : Then come, ye Mountains, ye half-heavenly Forms, Based in deep lakes and woods, and crowned with storms, Close on it, — cover., — seal it up again, But with the signet of your own pure power, So that unbroken, till the' all-searching hour Of Death, that impress may on it remain. In the treasnry of the Benedictine Monastery of St. Peter at Salzburg, I was shown a gold and jewel -studded pen with which every brother, on his entrance into the order, signed his name. This had been ttre custom for Tnamy centuries. MS. Journal. This dainty instrument, this table-toy, Might seem best fitted for the use and joy Of some high Ladie in old gallant times, Or gay-learned weaver of Proven9al rhjuies : With such a pen did f^weet Francesea trace Some hurried lines beneath her blushing face, •And hid them in her lover's doublet -sleeve, To let him know, that^ ere to-morrow eve. They would enjoy the luscious summer- weather. And read their favoVite Launcelot together ; With such a pen did tremulous JNIary write. To bid good Chat'elet come and play to-night ; And so we might go on for hours, and fold Our colouring fancies round this antient gold ; SALZBURG.* . 13 But here one stern Reality appears, And leaves no place for other dreams or tears, — The simple record, that, with this one pen, Have hundreds of our brothers, fellow-men, Signed by their names the awfiillest decree That between them and all the world could be ; o Those few small letters, when thus written, said — ' The writer, though he live, i« living dead ; ' The world of man, of beauty, and of bloom^ ' This visi'ble earth, but serves him for a tomb, — ' He feels no more its glories or its gains, ' His soul can only know its purging pains, — ^ Here from the trails of sin however sure, ' He needs that suffe'ring to be perfect -pure.'' Think of the fingers that have dared to hold • . This fateful relic ! Some with grasp so bold. You would believe that nothing but the pride Of glory won, ambition satisfied, Or joy of meed long-toiled for, could command Such full composure in an aged hand : And yet the most of those, who hither brought Their Being's sacrifice were men well, taught In the world's wisdom, men who had lived through All that life gives to suffer and to do ; 1< • • SALZBURG. . '. Who had grown old in wars of ^piVit and arm, But found in Victo'ry no victorious <5harm Against the clouding armament of 111, Licenst on earth by God's unsounded will. Some might be young, — by strange heart-prescience led To know that Life is but a sick-man's bed. On which, with aching head and limbs, we lie Through the hot Night of our humanity. Waiting for Death, our Lucifer, — so blest Is he, through whose deep-drugged and senseless rest No Dreams can pierce, — and thus they did but crave To seek this stupor in the cloiste'ral grave ; These held the Pen, as valor holds a sword Against the foe that doubted of its word ; Yet others still might be, — young too and fair, Strong too, but only strengthened by Despair, Who, — when that closing moment came at last. That one thin line, which lay between the past And the unknown bleak Future,— that deep trench. Which now leapt over, by a fearful wrench - Of all most natuVal instincts, held the soul, Once the world's freeman, once without controul Working and wande'ring, bound to a new law, . Captive in Faith and prisoner in Awe, — SALZBURQ. 15 Caught up this Pen, and quiveringly traced The names, that thence could never be effaced, With moveless eyes and pale-blue lips convulst, As if the salient blood were all repulst To its free source, — as if within their clutch They had a poisoned dagger, and its totich Was on their living flesh ; — yet they, even they, Found in these precincts Joy, we will not say, • But, what is better. Peace ; — they askt no more ; Happy the wave that breaks upon the shore I . THE RIVER TRAUN. WRITTEN IN LOMBARD Y. The Traun rises in the mountains of Upper Austria, and loses itself in the Danube above Linz. Its course is remarkable for the combination of .the best features of Alpine scenery with the grace and elegance of the Southern landskip. My heart is in a mountain mood, Though I am bound to tread the plain, She will away for ill or good, — I cannot lure her back again ; So let her go, — God speed her flight O'er racy glebe and columned town, I know that she will rest e'er night, * By the remembered banks of Traun. THE RIVER TRAUN. 17 And she will pray her sister Muse, Sister, companion, friend, and guide. Her every art and grace to use, For love of that well-cherisht tide ; But words are weak, — she cannot reach By such poor steps that Beauty's crown ; How can the Muse to others teach What were to me the banks of Traun I She can repeat the faithful tale That '' where thy genial waters flow, '' All objects the rare crystal hail, ''And cast their voices far below ; * '' And there the stedfast echoes rest, '' Till the old Sun himself goes down, '' Till darkness falls on every breast, '' Even on thine, transparent Traun.'*' And she can say, '' Where'er thou art, '' Brawling 'mid rocks, or calm-embayed, '' Outpouring thy abundant heart '' In ample lake or deep cascade, — '' Whatever dress thy sides adorn, '' Fresh-dewy leaves or fir-stems brown, '' Or ruby-dripping barbe'ry- thorn, '' Thou art thyself,, delightful Traun ! D 18 THE RIVER TRAUN. '' No glacier-mountains, harshly bold, '' Whose peaks disturb the summer air, '' And make the gentle blue so cold, " And hurt our warmest thoughts, are there ; '' But upland meadows, lush with rills, " Soft-green as is the love-bird's down, '' And quaintest forms of pine-clad hills, '' Are thy fit setting, jewelled Traun !'' But the^ wise Muse need not be told. Though fair and just her song may seem, The same has oft been sung of old, . Of many' a less deserving stream ; For where would be the worth of sight, If Love could feed on blank renown ? ' They who have loved the Traun aright. Have sat beside the banks of Traun. l> WRITTEN IN PETRARCH'S HOUSE AT ARQUA, # * AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS. Petrarch ! I would that there might be In this thy household sanctuary No visi^ble monument of thee : The fount that whilom played before thee, The roof that rose in shelter o'er thee, The low fair hills that still adore thee, — I would no more ; thy memory ' Must loathe all cold reality, Thought-worship only is for thee: 20 A\RITTEN IN PETRARCH'S HOUSE, AT ARQUA. They say thy tomb lies there below ; What want I with the marble show ? I am content, — I will not go : For though by Poesy^is high grace Thou sawe'^st, in thy calm resting-place, God, Love, and Nature face to face ; Yet now that thou art wholly free, How can it give delight to see That sign of thy captivity ? FEELINGS EXCITED BY SOME MILITARY MANCEUVRES AT VERONA. T What is the lesson I have brought away, After the moment's palpitating glee ? What has this pomp of men, this strong array •Of thousands and ten thousands been to me I Did I find nothing' but the vision gay. The mere phenomenon that all could see ? Did I feel nothing but the brute display Of Power,^ — the «how of centred energy ? 'Jrembling and humbled, I was taught how hard . It is for our strait minds at once to scan The might of banded numbers, ,and regard The individual soul, the living Man ; To use mechanic multitudes, and yet pur common hmnan feelings not forget ! MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS, ON VENICE. I. The ruler of the Adriatic, who never was infant nor stripling, whom God took by the right hand and taught to walk by himself the first hour. Landor. W^ALK in St. Mark's, the time the ample space Lies in the freshness of the evening shade, When, on each side, with gravely-darkened face • The masses rise above the light arcade ; Walk down the midst with slowly-tuned pace, But gay withal, — for there is high parade Of fair attire and fairer forms, which pass Like varying groups on a magician'^s glass* VENICE. 2: 00 From broad-illumined chambers far within, Or under curtains daintily outspread. Music, and laugh, and talk, the motley din Of all who from sad thought or toil are sped, Here a chance hour of social joy to win, Gush forth, — but / love best, above my head To feel nor arch nor tent, nor anything But that pure Heaven's eternal covering. « • It is one broad Saloon, one gorgeous Hall; A chamber, where a multitude, all Kings, May hold full audience, splendid festival. Or Piety'^s most pompous ministerings ; Thus be its highth unmarred, — thus be it all One mighty room, whose form direct upsprings To the o'er-arching sky ; — it is right good, When Art and Nature keep such brotherhood. For where, upon the firmest sodden land, Has ever Monarch's power and toil of slaves Equalled the works of that self-governed band, Who fixt the Delos of the Adrian waves ; Planting upon these strips of yielding sand A Temple of the Beautiful, which braves The jealous strokes of ocean, nor yet fears The far more perilous sea, " whose waves are years? . ' m ■ .^c^.V^ 24 * VENICE. Walk in St. Mark'^s again, some few hours after, When a bright sleep is on each storied pile, — When fitful music, and inconstant laughter. Give place to Nature's silent moonlight smile :, Now Fancy wants no faery gale to waft her To Magian haunt, or charm-engirded isle. All too content, in passive bliss, to see This show divine of visi'ble Poetry :- — On such a night as this impassionedly The old Venetian sung those verses rare, ^' That Venice must of needs eternal be, For Heaven had lookt through the pellucid air, And cast its reflex in the crystal sea, And Venice was the image pictured there * ;''' I hear them now, and tremble, for I seem As treading on an unsubstantial dream. . Who talks of vanisht glory, of dead power. Of things that were, and are not ? Is he here ? Can he take in the glory of this hour,' . And call it all the decking of a bier ? . • * Ich horte eiiieii blinden Sanger in Chioggia, der sang, Venedig sey eine ewige Stadt ; der Himmel hatte sich im Meer gespiegelt und sein Wider: schein ware Venedig. ** Graf von Platen. VENICE. -2: No, surely as on that Titanic to\yer.* The Guardian Angel stands in aether clear, With the moon's silver tempe'ring his gold wing, So Venice lives, as lives no other thing : — o That strange Cathedral! exquisitely strange, That front, on whose bright varied tints the eye Eests as of gems, — those arches, whose high range Gives its rich-broidered border to the ^ky, — Those ever-prancing steeds ! — My friend, whom change ' Of restless will has led to lands that lie Deep in the East, does not thy fancy set Above those domes an airy minaret ? • . ♦ Dost thou not feel, that in this scene are blent Wide distances of the estranged earth, Far thoughts, far faiths, beseeming her who bent '. . The spacious Orient to her simple worth, Who, in her own young freedom eminent, * Scorning the slaves that shamed their antient birth, And feeling what the West, could be, had been, Went out a Traveller, and returned a Queen ? . ' • * The Campanile. K II. The Golden Book * Is now nnwritten in, and stands unmoved, Save when the curious traveller takes down A random volume, from the dusty shelf. To trace the progress of a bruited name ; The Bucentaur Is shattered, and of its resplendent form There is no remnant, but some, splintered morsel, Which in his cabin, as a talisman. Mournfully hangs the pious Gondolier ; . The Adrian sea Will never have a Doge to marry more,-^- The meagre ftivors of a forein lord Can hardly lead some score of humble craft With vilest merchandize into the port, That whilom held the wealtli of half a world. Thy palaces « Are bartered to the careful Israelite, — Or left to perish, stone by stone, worn down * The Libro cl' Oro, the Venetian '\J*eernge." VENICE. 27 In desolation, — solemn skeletons, Whose nakedness some- tufts of pitying grass. Or green boughs trembling o"'er the trembling wall, Adorn but hide not... And are these thino;s true, Miraculous Venice ? Is the charm then past Away from thee? Is all thy work fulfilled Of power and beauty ? Art thou gathered To the dead cities ? Is thy ministry Made up, and folded in the hand of Thought ? Ask him who knows the meaning and the truth Of all existence ; — ask the Poet's heart : Thy Book has no dead tome for him,— for him, Within St. Mark's emblazoned porticoes, Thy old nobility are walking still ; — The lowliest gondola upon thy waters ^ * '. Is w^orth to him thy decorated galley ; He never looks upon the Adrian sea But as thy lawful tho' too faithless spouse ; And when, in the sad lustre of the moon, • * Thy palaces seem beautifully wan. He blesses God that there is left on earth So marvellous, so full, an antidote, For all the racks and toils of mortal life. As thy sweet countenance to gaze upon. HI. ; . » o • LIDO. I WENT to greet the full May-moon On that long narrow shoal Which lies between the still Lagoon And the' open Ocean'vS roll. .How pleasant was that grassy shore, AVhen one for months had been Shut up in streets, — to feel once more One's footfall on the green ! There are thick trees too in that place ;' But straight from sea to sea, Over a rough uncultured jspace. The path goes drearily. VENICE. ^ 29 I past along, with many a bound, To hail the fresh free waVe ; But, pausing, wonderingly found • r was treading on a grave. ' • •. Then, at one careless look, I saw That, for some distance round. Tomb-stones, without design or law. Were scattered on the ground : ! " . a ■ ' Of pirates or of mariners • . I deemed that these might be . The fitly-chosen sepulchres, Encircled by the sea. . . « * • . • . • • • But there were w^ol'ds inscribed on all, I' the tongue of a far land, And marks of things symbolical, I could not understand. • . . They are the graves of that sad race, Who, from their Syrian home, For ages, without resting-place, . • Are doomed in woe to roam ;• 30 VENICE. Who, in the days of sternest faith, Glutted the sword and flama, As if a taint of moral death ; * Were in their very name : % • •• And even under laws most mild, All shame was deemed their due, ' • And the nurse told the Christian child To shun the cursed Jew. Thus all their gold's insidious grace Availed not here to gain, • For their last sleep, a seemlier place Than this bleak-featured plain. Apart, severely separate. On' the verge of the' outer sea, . • Their home of Death is desolate As tlieir Life's home could be. The common sand- path had defaced And prest down many a stone 4 . Others can" be but faintlv traced V the rank grass o'er them grown. VENICE. 31 I thought of Shylock, — tlie fierce heart Whose wrongs and inju''ries old Temper, in Shakspeare'^s world of Art, His lusts of blood and gold ; Perchance that form of broken pride Here at my feet once lay, — But lay alone, — for at his side There was no Jessica ! Fondly I love each island-shore, Embraced by Adrian waves ; • , But none has Memo^w cherisht more Than Lido and its graves. IV. Oh Poverty ! thou bitter-hearted fiend ! How darest thou approach the Beautiful ? 'How darest thou give up these palaces, Where deli'!cate Art in wood" and marble wove Its noblest fancies, with laborious skill, To the base uses of the artizan ? How darest thou defile with coarsest stores. And vermin's loathsome nests, the aged walls, Whence Titian's women burningly looked down On the rich-vested pomp that shone below^ ? Is nothing sacred for thy hand, no names, No memories, — thou bold Iniquity ! Shall men, on whose fine brows we recognize The lines of some great ducal effigies, AVhich frown along St. John s cathedral aisles *^, AVith hearts as high as any of their fathers. Sink silent under thy slow martyi'dom, * • • • # * Tlj'e Veneli'ah Pailtheon of S. Giovanni e Paolo. VENICE. 33 • « Leaving their children, Liberty's just heirs, Children like those that Gianbellini painted *, To batten on the miserable alms, • • The sordid fragments of their country's wealth, Doled out by servants of a stranger king ? Is there no engine of compassionate Death, Which with a rapid mercy will relieve This antient city of its shamed being ? Is War so weary that he cannot strike One iron blow, that she may fold her robe About her head, and fall imperially ? Is there no eager earthquake far below, To shiver her frail limbs, and hurl her down, Into the bosom of her mated sea ? Or must she, for a lapse of wretched years, Armless and heartless, tremble on as now. Like one who hears the tramp of murderous foes. Unseen, and feels them nearer, hearer, still ; — Till round her Famine's pestilential breath. Fatally closing, to the gloom of Time, She shall, in quive'ring agony, give up The spirit of that light, which burnt so long, * • A steadfast glory, an unfailing iire ? . * E. G. In the .refectories of the Redcntore and Frari. * F 34; VENICE. Thus ran the darkling current of hiy thoughts, As one sad night, from the Rialto's edge, I lookt into the waters, — on whose face GHmmered the reflex of some few faint stars, ' * And two far-flitting lamps of gondoliers, That seemed on that black flat to move alone. While, on each side, each well-known building lost Its sepa rate beauty in one dark long curve. Y. City, whose name did once adorn the world, Thou mightst have been all that thou ever wert, In form and feature and material strength, Up from the sea, which is thy pedestal. Unto thy Campanile'^s golden top, And yet have never won the precious crown, To be the loved of human hearts^ to be The wise man's treasure now and evermore. — The' ingenious boldness, the creative will, Which from some weak uncertain plots of sand, Cast up among the waters, could erect Foundations firm as on the central ground, — The art which changed thy huts to palaces, And bade the God of Ocean's temples rise Conspicuous far above the crystal plain, — The ever-active nerve of Industry, That bound the Orient io the Occident 36 ' ■ V VENICE. . In fruitful commerce, till thy lap was filled With wealth, the while thy head was girt with power,- Each have their separate palm from wondeVing men ; But the sage thinker^s passion must have source In sympathy entire with that rare spirit Which did possess thee, as thy very life, — That power of union and self-sacrifice, Which from the proud republics of old time Devolved upon thee, by a perfect faith Strung to a tenfold deeper energy. \ Within thy people''s mind immutable .' Two notions held associate monarchy, , • Religion and the state, — to which alone. '^ ' In their full freedom, they declared themselves Subject, and deemed this willing servitude " Their dearest privilege of liberty. Thus at the call of either sacred cause, All wealth, all feelings, all peculiar rights, • Were made one universal holocaust, Without a thought of pain, — thus all thy sons . Bore thee a love, not vague and hard defined, " - But close and personal, a love no force Could take away, no coldness could assuage. Thus when the noble body' of Italy, Which God has bound in one by Alps and sea, VENICE. ' .37 * . ^ • Was struggling with torn heart and spHntered Hmbs,* So that the very marrow of her strength Mixt with the lavisht gore and oozed away, — Town banded against town, street against street, House against house, and father against son, The servile victims of unmeaning feuds, — Thou didst sustain the wholeness of thy power, — Thy altar was as a domestic hearth, Round which thy children sat in brotherhood ; — * Never w^as name of Guelf or Ghibelline Writ on thy. front in letters of bright blood ; Never the stranger, for his own base ends^ . Flattered thy passions, or by proffered gold Seduced the meanest of thy citizens. — Thus too the very suffe'rers of thy wrath, Whom the unsparing prudence of the state. For erring judgment, insufficient zeal, Or heavier fault, had banisht from its breast, ' * Ev'en they, when came on thee thy hour of need, Fell at thy feet and prayed, with humble tears, That thou wouldst deign at least to use their wealth, Though thou didst scorn the gift of their poor lives*. * As in the instance of Antonio Grimani, who was living in exile at Rome at the time of the league of fcambray. He had been condemned for some' error in fighting agamst the Turks. When Venice was in distress, he offered all his private fortune to the state. After her victory he was jiot only recalled, but elected Doge $(^me years later. 38 VENICE. % % # # # .# Prime model of a Cl^nstian common wealth ! Thou wise shnplicity, which present men Calumniate, not cori^ . / AN ITALIAN TO ITALY. But that thou wert and art The. beauty of my heart : — , • . Now with a lover's love I pray to thee, As in my passio'nate youth- time erst I prayed ; Now, with a lover s agony, ' . I see thy features fade. '^ They tell me thou art deeply low ; They brand thee weak and vile ; The cruel Northman tells me so, . ' And pities me the while : What can he know of thee, ' . Glorified Italy ? Never has Nature to his infant mouth Bared the full summer of her living breast ; Never the warm and mellow South To his young lips was prest. . ' . '^ I know, — and thought has often striven The justice to approve, — • ; • I know that all that God has given Is given us to love ; • ' But still I have a faith. Which must endure till death. AN ITALIAN. TO ITALY. * ' 97 ► • That Beauty is the mother of all Love ; * And Patriot Love can never purely glow Where frowns the veiled heaven above, And' the niggard earth below. •o '' The wealth of high ancestral name, And silken house-hold ties, And battle-fields' memorial fame, He earnestly may prize Who loves and honors not The country of his lot, With undiscerning piety, — the same ' . ' Filial religion, be she great and brave, Or sunk in sloth, and red with shame, A monarch or a slave. •^But He who calls this heaven his own, The very lowliest one, Is conscious of a holier zone, And nearer to the sun : Ever it bids him hail. Cloud-feathered and clear pale, o 98 AN ITALIAN TO ITALY. Or one vast dome of deep immacu'late blue, Or, when the moon is on'her mid-year throne, With richer but less brilliant hue, Built up of turkis stone. '' The springing corn that steept in light Looks emerald, between The delineate olive-branc^hes, dight In reverend gray-green ; Each flower with open breast. To'' the gale it loves the best ; The bland outbreathings of the midland sea, The aloe-fringed and myrtle-shadowed shore, Are precious things, — Oh, wo the be ! Must they be mine no more ? " And shall the matin bell awake My native village crowd, To kneel at shrines, whose pomp would make A Northern city proud ? And shall the festival Of closing Carnival AN ITALIAN TO ITALY. 99 Bid the gay laughers thro' those arches pour. Whose marble mass confronts its parent hill, — And / upon a far bleak shore ! My heart will see them still : • ''Beautiful forms ! and aye repent The waywardness and pride, That was not with their charms content, . • And yearned for aught beside ; . . . For some imagined bliss * t • ' I might have slain all this, — I might have sprent thy gorgepus robe with blood, And scarred the lucid clearness of thy brow, .Dear land ! in sooth, I meant thee good. But know the madness now. " What though in poverty and fear, Thou thinkst upon the morrow, ^ Dutiful Art is ever near, To wile thee from all sorrow ; Thou hast a power of melody. To lull all sense of slavery ; J 00 . AN ITALIAN TO ITALY. Thy floral crown is blowing still to blow, Thy eye of glory ceases not to shine, And so long as these things be so, I feel thee, bless thee, mine ! " There can be no desire in these lines to depreciate the high merit of the Italian political exiles of this (1831) and former years." If the inten- sity of their patriotic feelings be here fairly painted, the mightier has been their energy of self-sacrifice, and the heartier should be our admi- ration." But though » " Deh ! fossi tu men bella o almen piu forte," may be the stifled cry of many an Italian heart, — yet the mass^ in weak- ness and m indolence, bear with their governors ; and it is with regard to these, thJit we should weigh, in a just measure, the physical differ- ences between countries, where Life is worth li\ing for its owti sake, and those where all tl>e excitement of social and political feelings is neces-' sary to give, zest and enjo}TTient to existence. ON LEAVING ITALY, FOR THE SUMMER, ON ACCOUNT OF HEALTH. Thou summer land ! that dost put on the sun Not as a dress of pomp occasional. But as thy natu'ral and most fitting one, — Yet still thy Beauty has its festival, Its own chief day, / » ., • And I, though conscious of the bliss begun-, * Must turn away ! • * ' '- . I leavtj thee in thy royallest attire Of affluent life,— I leave thee 'mid thy wealth Of sunlight gold and jewels of all fire, — Led by the paltry care of weakened health . And fear of pain ; Who knows that I shall see; ctc I expire, . Thy face again ! • 102 ON LEAVING ITALY. I almost could persuade me that too dear My Northern-island birthdom has been bought, * The vantage-ground of mtellect, the clear And bright expanse of action and of thought, If I am bound To limit all the good my heart has sought To that cold ground. • What is my gain that I can take and mesh The Beautiful in Nature's deepest sea, If I am bound the bondman of the flesh, •And must not float upon the surface free I . Why should these powers Bring nothing but a burden ever fresh Of yearning hours ? Why do we wish the things we do not dare ? Why do I tremble at my sestuous Soul That would embrace the burning god, and there Give up into "the elemental whole Its worthless fi*ame; Whose instincts guide me captiv6 everywhere, In grief and shame l . . ON LEA^^NG ITALY. 103 Oh ! what a world of strifes of good and ill Is this that we are cast in ? Head and Heart, Body and Spirit, Faculties and Will, Nothing at peace, all sundered and apart ; Who would not shun This war, if Death were sure to make him still. Or make him One ! . * • • SWITZERLAND AND ITALY. Within the Switzer's varied land, When Summer chases high the snow, You^'ll meet with many a youtliful band . Of strangers wande'ring to and fro : Through hamlet, town^ and healing batli, They haste and rest as chance may call, No day without its mountain-path, No path without its waterfall. They make the Hours themselves repay, . However well or ill be shared, Content that they should wing their way, Uncheckt, unreckoned, uncompared : For though the hills unshapely rise, And lie the colors poorly bright, — They mould them by their cheerful eyes, And paint them with their spirit's light. ^H^ SWITZERLAND AND ITALY. 105 Strong in their youthfulness, they use The energies their souls possess ; ° . And if some wayward scene refuse To pay its part of loveHness, — Onward they pass, nor less enjoy For what they leave ; — and far from me Be every thought that would destroy A charm of that simplicity ! But if one blot on that white page From Doubt or Mise'^ry'^s pen be thrown, — I{ 07ice the sense awake, that Age Is. counted not by years alone, — , Then no more grand and wondrous things ! No active happinesses more ! The wounded Heart has lost its wings, And change can only fret the sore. . '. .• Yet there is calm for those that weep, : Where the divine Italian sea Rests like a maiden husht asleep And breathing low and measuredly ; Where all the sunset-purpled ground,- Fashioned by those delicious airs, . Seems strewed with softest cushions round For wearv heads to loose their- cares : * •/ ■ • • •• 106 SWITZERLAND AND ITALY. Where Nature offers, at all hours, - Out of her free imperial store, . That perfect Beauty their weak powers Can help her to create no more : And grateful for that antient aid, Comes forth to comfort and relieve Those minds in prostrate sorrow laid, Bidding them open and receive ! • Though still 'tis hardly slie that gives, For Nature reigns not there alone, - A mightier queen beside her lives, Whom she can serve but not dethrone ; For sjie is fallen from the state That waited on her Eden-prime, And Art remains by Sin and Fate Unscatht, for Art is not of Time. ON THE CHURCH OF THE MADALEINE, AT PARIS. I.. ^ « The Attic temple whose majestic room • Contained the presence of the' Olympian Jove,, With smooth Hymettus round it and above, Softe'ning the splendour by a sober bloom. Is yielding fast to Time's irreve'rent doom ; • While on the then barbarian banks of Seine That noble type is realised again In perfect form, and dedicate — to whom ? To a poor Syrian girl, of lowliest name', A hapless creature, pitiful and frail As ever wore her life in sin and shame, — Of whom all histo'ry has this single tale, — , ■'' She loved the Christ, she wept beside his grave, And He, for that Love's sake, all .else forgave." • » . ' II. If one, with prescient soul to understand The working of this world beyond the day * Of his small life, had taken by the hand That wanton daughter of old Magdala; And „told her that the time was ripe to come ' When she, thus base among the base, should be More served than all the Gods of Greece and Rome, More honored in her holy memory, — How would not men have mockt and she have scorned The fond Diviner? — Plausible excuse Had been for them, all moulded to one use Of feeling and of thought, but We are warned By such ensamples to distrust the sense Of Custom proud and bold Experience. / IlL Thanks to that element of heavenly things, That did come down to earth, and there confound Most sacred thoughts with names of usual sound, And homeliest life with all a Poet sings. The proud Ideas that had ruled and bound Our moral nature were no longer kings, Old Power grew faint and shed his eagle- wings. And grey Philosophy was half uncrowned. • * Love, Pleasure's child, betrothed himself to Pain; — Weakness, and Poverty, and Self-disdain, And tranquil suffe'rance of repeated wrongs. Became adorable ; — Fame gave her tongues, And Faith her hearts to objects all as low As this lorn child of infamy and woe.c IMPRESSION, . ON RETURNING TO ENGLAND. In just accordance with attentive- sight, Through airy space and round our planet ball. The inorganic world is voiced with Lights And Colors are the words it speaks withal. Thus has my eye had glad experience Of that most perfect utte'^rance and clear tone, With which all visi'ble things address the sense, In lands retiring from the northern zon,e. But, oh ! in what poor language, faintly caught. Do the old features of my England greet Her stranger-son ! how powerless, — how unmeet For the free vision Italy had taught What to expect from Nature ; I must scan Her face, I fear, no more, and look alone to Man. ■ WRITTEN IN IRELAND. CLIFDEI^?, IN CUNNEMARA. Here the vast daughter's of the eastward tide, « Heaved from the bosoms of the' Atlantic deep, Lay down the burthen of their mighty forms, Like some diviner natures of our kind, AVeary with gathered power, and sure to find Only at once destruction and repose. Yet no aerial cliff with harsh repulse Confronts the roving buttresses of sea ; ' But on the gentle slant of yielding shores The wandeVers of a world, intent on rest, Impress their massive substances, break down The' uneven slope by measureless degrees^ . Wear out the line in thousand rugged shapes, 112 .IRELAND. Detacht, dissolving, and peninsular, Now closed within broad circle, like a lake, Now narrow as a river far inland : Thence rose the name whose very utterance Is as an echo, of the distant main. The name of Cunnemara, — land of bays. I stood among those waters and low hills, Within the circuit of a goodly town, • " Furnisht with mart and port and church ancl school, Meet for the duteous work of social man And all the uses of commodious life : While round me circulated, free and wide, A shifting crowd of almost giant shapes, Creatures of busy blood and glorious eyes Andalusian, (as beseems the race). Moulds of magnificent humanity. Then was I told that twenty years before. Or less, this spot, thus gay and populous, . Was one unmitigated solitude, ' And all this outer wonder brought about By the mere act of one industrious man ! Thus rolls amain the large material world. Impelled and energised by human will. . ■ • IRELAND. 113 Accord not him alone the HeiVs name, Who weaves the comphcate historic woof, Out of the i:ough disorder of mankind, Fashioning nations to his own proud law : Nor him alone the Poet's, who creates, In his own chamber and exchisive spirit, A universe of beauty, undisturbed But by serene and sister sympathies. . • » For He who in one unremitting chain Of solemn purpose solders link to link Of active day and meditative night, And with unquive'ring heart and hand can meet . Ever distress, ever impediment, And wrino; from out a world of checks and flaws Some palpable and most perspicuous whole Of reallised design and change imprest, .... Shall be enrolled among heroic souls, Though small the scope and slow the growth of deed. He too, whose care has made some arid soil Alive with waters of humane delight, That shall in merry channels gambol on. Or rest in depths of happy consciousness,— Q • . 114 IRELAND. Has planted and defended in the wild Some garden of affection, a safe place For daily love to grow in, and when ripe To shed sweet seeds, that in their turn will feed The winds of life with odours, shall be writ Poet, — Creator, in that book of worth. Which Nature treasures for the eye of Heaven. y • THE SUBTERRANEAN RIVER, AT CONG. A PLEASANT mean of joy and wonder fills The traveller's mind, beside this secret stream. That flows from lake to lake beneath the hills, And penetrates their slumber like a dream. • Untrackt by sound or sight it w^ends its way, Save where this well -like cave descending far. Through ivy curtains, lets the' uncertain day Fall on the current and its couch of spar. A slippe'ry stair will lead you to the brink. There cast your torch athwart the gleaming tide, And while you watch fhe motions of the link That marries the great waters on each, side, — \\G IRELAND; Think of our common life that ghdes a span In partial light dark birth and death between,- Think of the treasures of the heart of man That once float by us and are no more seen. Or, for more cheerful mood, let local fame Recount, how in old time, the faery sprite, Finvara, or some such melodious name, Fashioned this channel for her own delight ; And here, distrest at these unloyal days, Maskt in a milk-white fish, still sports along, And altogether leaves the moonlight rays For the cool shadow of her Caves of Cong. AVe arrived at the Coleraine Salmon Leap on the 12th of August, just in time to see the last salmon caught, — the fishery there ending that day. MSS. Journal. One. moment more before that fatal leap ! One moment more ! and now thou hadst been free To wanton in the autumn sun or sleep ' o In the warmed crystal of thy little sea. I saw thee pant, — I saw the flicke ring shades Wander beneath thy silver, loth to die, — . And still their glazed brilliancy upbraids o o .The heavens that they permit man's perfidy. But is it not a weak nor sinless thought, Since Nature's law thus undivSturbod has run, Heedless of all the same hard fate has wrought, To pass the myriad and deplore the one ? No, no, — our heart has but a narrow span. Let it hold all the sympathy it can, ^ ' A^ALENTIA. , A FRAGMENT. Where Europe's varied shore is bent Out to the utmost Occident, There rose of old from sea to air, ' An island wonderful and fair ! Not that on his way to cheer Our stranger-sister hemisphere. Here the Sun is pleased to cast * Liefest smiles, as more his last. Kinder than he .gives to us-^ Parting love-looks rubious : Not that here the wiiid may fling Odours from his faithless wing, IRELAND.' * 119 Scented breath of heaths and bowers, — Keepsakes from confiding flowers, — That the rover may be hght For his long Atlantic flight : — • • Not that here the haughty land. Spurning an assistant hand, * ' Makes a gracious rivalry • With its fere the hoary sea, . . . * Offering up to regal man AH the loyal gifts it can. Such is not the rarity O' the Island of tfie Western Sea. The name is of a richer tone Than our baptismal forms may own, A Spanish name, I little doubt, Yet stands no Spanish lady out When myriad star-rays mingle o'er Her rose-emblazoned mirador, Following with a flattered ear A voice that follows a guitar. Too mild and mellowed to be near, But every precious word so clear,. It cannot come from veri/ far. 120 . • IRELAND. • No relick of gone days is here, No antient-minded cavalier, Who takes his grandson on his knee And half in play, half earnestly. Watches the darling's tender hand • Labour to clasp a well-used brand. Which sleeps in quiet rust at last, — And tells him of the echoing past, What time the gallant Moorish race Made Christian Spain their dwelling-place, But Spain could never be the slave Of stranger hosts, however Ibrave, . And how this steel had helped to free* Her soil from turbaned Paynimrie. a * The world has had its childly days, Passion-bred hopes and earnest plays, — The world has had its manhood fraught With power and war and holy thought,-^ The world is now grown vain and old. Her head and heart are palsy cold, — . . Light was called to meet her prime, Thunder waits on her eve-time, With a light that is not light, - . ' But a deathrglare ghastly bright. * • IRELANt). 121 And a voice is every where Louder than thousand trumpets' blare, ''' Hear it, ye mortals, every one. The life from out your world is gone/' * So murmurs many' a soul sublime, Engaoled in this unhealthy time, Whose embryo-thoughts and half- desires Feed not his heart's sky-seeking fires ; Who scales all highths, and with sharp ken Observes the policies of men. Their aims and objects, and can see, However wide the' horizon be, No onward-leading knightly road^ . Such as his antient heroes trode, — No one secure and honest way Where he can travel night and day, — But every moment full of fear, Of Truth forgot and Error near ': He dare not mingle in that maze. He dare not front the doubtful haze, — He dare not, — as he would keep whole His virgin rectitude of soul, As he holds dear his life to be , . His claim to blest Eternity ! 1^22 , mELAND. And thus, with all his loving mind, He stands at bay against his kind, Half sad to see amidst the blind. Is there. ^o refuge but the tomb For all this timeless spirit-bloom ? Does earth no other prospect yield But one broad barren battle-field ? Or if there be some cradling spot Where such grown evil enters not, Lies it in countries far away From where he first drank in the day ? ' Where, if despairing he be driven, • He must renounce his native heaven, ■ . No more by olden ties be bound. Take other dress, and let the sound Of native and of neighbour speech No more his aliened senses reach ! Be it not so ! for thou art here, O Island beautifully drear ! For thou, encounte'ring such a guest, Wilt claspt him to thy hardy breast, And bid him dwell at peace with thee In thy uncitied modesty ; IRELAND. 123 Let him his spirit slake and ^teep In thy immense Atlantic deep, — ^ . Let him from thy rude natm^e gain Some sturdy posture to sustain The burthen of ideal care. To which the Poet''s soul is heir. •X- ^ -k « % ■^ HISTORICAL POEMS. SAUL AND DAVID. And it came to pass, when the spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took an harp, and played with his hand : so Saul was refresht, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him. 1 S4M. XVI. 23. ''An evil spirit lieth on our King !". So went the wailful tale up Israel, From Gilgal unto Gibeah ; town and camp Caught the sad fame that spread like pestilence, In the low whiispers of pale maiden lips, And tones, half-stifled by religious awe, • Outbreathed from hearts that else had known no fear. There stood a Boy beside the glooming King, Whose serfish garb was Strangely dissonant SAUL AND DAVID. •. • * 125 » * • . To the high bearing and most gentle air ' • That waited on his beauty ; health and joy, • ' ■ • Tho'. tempered now by sorrowing reverence, Lay on his rose-red cheek ; transcendent love Rounded his brow ; and when the delineate hand Swept o'er the chords of that sweet instrument. With which it long had been his use to fill The lonely measure of his pasto^'ral hours, — : It would have been no weak idolatry To shroud your eyes and feel your heart beat strong, As in the presence of one fresh from heaven, Come down to save that doomed and deso'late man. • • . * • • » A. strain of war, — a deep and nervous strain • • • ' * < ■ Of full and solemn notes, whose long-drawn swell Dies on the silence, slow and terrible. Making the blood of him who listens to it To follow the great measure ; every tone » .Clear in. its utterance, and eloquent . ° . Above all words : there was the settled tramp Of warriors faithful to ancestralswords ; There was the prayer that was not all a prayer. But rising in a suppliant murmuring Grows to a war-cry, — '' Victory, oh God ! . • For IsraePs'God and Israel, victory !"" 12^ SAUL AND DAVID. Then came the onset, — chord fast following chord, In passio'nate clang, as if the conscious harp Wepe prodigal of all its life of sound, 'To give that awful feint reality. • * From off the couch, at one enormous leap, To where his helmet ajid long-shadowing spear And brazen target hung beside the wall, Bounded the King, and graspt the quive**ring arms. He raised his hand, and, as to gathe'ring hosts. Shouted, '^ Where's Jonathan? — he is not here; Watchman, look out ! I cannot find my son ; Here is the Ark,— there is the Phihstine, — There too is Jonathan ! On, Israel, — on ! Alloo ! AUoo * !.'*' He ceast ; and while the short Heroic blaze flared and died out, he cried. In a most faint and miserable voice, '' He is not there^ — the foe ! — he is within !'' And fell upon his face, even as before. The harper paused ; and when a struggling tear Dropt on the string from his uphfted eye. The spirit of the strain was changed ; — awhile ^ 1 Sam. xiv. 17 to 20. SAUL AND DAVID. • 127 An under-current of discordant tones Went tricklinp; on, beneath the random finders, — Till, from a labyrinth of tangled notes - ' ^ Came up with placid step a shape of sound Distinct and fine-proportioned, redolent Of. loVb, — a fair old Hebrew melody, Most plaintive numbers, born of that pure time, — That golden-shaded, half-revealed time. When Israel's patriarchs fed their wealth of herds About the myrrhine shades of Araby, And eve'ry passion out of their chaste hearts Gusht freely forth, and wove a sepa'rate song. But, more than all, to the toriiiented King That rythm was full of memo'ries ; — fold by fold The grey loose veil of long-forgotten Time Shrunk back before the mystic minstrelsy ; He was once more the simple Benjamite, The gallant Boy, the innocent, the brave,' The choicest and the goodliest of his peers ^ ;. He was once more the owner of a life ° Whose moments were all feathered, and kept cool From scorching passion by continuous airs Of gaysome hope and self-contenting joy. * 1 Sam. ix. 2. 128 SAUL AND DAVID. » ...» Awful command and peri'lous empery The diffi'cult mean of power, — the hard, hard, task To be at once a lard and servitor, o To rule allotted kingdoms and obey. The caster of the lot, the King of Kings, • • • .Had set no snaring choice before him, then. How often in the Vain and weary guest . Wlien he pursued his father'^s wande'ring droves All down the slopes of pleasant Ephraim Thro"* Shalisha and Shalim, had his ear •* Drunk in the burthen of that antique tune Giving him brotherhood with stranger-lands : . Oft too the maid, whose image ever lived WitHin his breast, stronger than all real things, Returning homeward when the'' expiring Sun Mingled its life-blood with the waning light, Had clothed her long farewell in that rich form, While he, expecting on some distant height His starlit watch, sent back such loud response As made a chorus of the echoing hills. As when the. surges of the midland sea,' Break on the carious, citron-fruited, shore Of Western Italy in morn's grey prime, Slowly above the coasting A penning, SAUL AND DAA^ID. 129 The sun appearing meets tlie wallowing foam And pierces it with light, till eve'ry wave Loses its frowning aspect and now sports About the myrtles, sho wearing precious gifts, Rare diamond globes and flecks of liquid gold : So to the fury of the darkened Spirit The sunrise of that harmony unveiled Its beauty, making beautiful, so fell. Transformed from out its former terri'ble shape, The passion into tender sympathy. Tears, blessed tears, in full profusion burst . ' From the dry sockets, breaking up the dams And foul embankments, arts of ill had raised Against all holy natu'ral impulses. From the prostration of his body' and soul Saul rose, but as a man who long had lain Wasted by dire disease, — pale, sorrowful. Yet calm and almost smiling in his woe. And did He not rejoice, that marvellous youth, To see his pious mediating work Consummated ? Glowed not his downy cheek With a serene delight, while fade away The notes in linge'ring trills and solemu sighs ? But is his countenance of other hue ' s * ^30, . SAUL AND DAVID. When Saul, in gene'rons gratefulness profuse, Proffers him jewels, wealth, and titled name, Or other gift, whatever .his soul might crave. A pallid tremor swept across his fa(:je, . • As with a ^upphant but determi'nate mien He speaks, ^'^Oh ! deem not, deem not, gracious Lord! o That I, of mean estate, dare scorn the boon Thy sove'ran bounty would pour forth on me, But yet no gems, no gold, no praise for me ! Glory and praise and honor be to Him, In the great circle of whose single will I and my harp are most poor instruments, His mightiness and goodness to proclaim. Go forth into the clear and open air, Look at all common things, and thou wilt find The form of all this outward Universe Is as the Body of the Living God : o And eve'ry movement, odour, shade, and hue Is animate with music as divine As lute, or harp, or dulcimer : to thee, The*" anthemnal voice of aged cataracts: •* ' . The jovial murmurings of summer brooks, - The carol that emblazoned flowers send up From the cold earth in spring-time, the wild hymn Of winter blasts sitting among the pines, SAUL AND DAVID. IM • • • And the articulate pulse of that large heart Which beats beneath the Ocean, will be parts Of the eternal symphony sublime, In which the Maker of all worlds reveals The spirit-depths of his untiring Love ; . If then all Nature, rightly askt, can do What I have done, how dare I claim reward j o'it In sooth it was a wondrous sight to see How far above the proud and vaunted king, In all the moral majesty of being, . That moment stood the God -selected child. , ' . ^ Thrice through the chamber with irresolute step Saul paced, and prest his hand upon his temples, As if to hide the passing cloud of shame, Then answ^'ring not a word, and motioning That David should retire, in thoughtfulness. Or prayer, he past into the outer hall. DECiUS BRUTUS. ON THE COAST OF PORTUGAL. Having travierst the whole of the country to the very coast, the conqueror at last turned his standards, but not until, with a certain dread of sacrilege and conscious horror, he had discovered the Sun sinking into the ocean, and its fire overwhelmed by the waters. Flqrus. Never did Day, her heat and trouble o'er, Proclaim herself more blest, Than when, beside that Lusitanian shore, She wooed herself to rest : ' And, freed from all that cumbrous-gilded dress That pleased the lusty noon, Lay down in her thin-shaded loveliness. Cool as the coming moon. DECIUS BRUTUS. * 133 There stood the gentlest and the wildest growth Together in the calm, The nightingale's long song was over both, A dream of bliss and balm. • * • * Pale-amber fruit among the cloiste'ring leaves Hung redolent and large, Strong-spiked aloes topt the broad rock-eaves Above that fair sea-marge. When through a thunder-cleft, now summer-dry, A loosely-straggling band. Plated in wear's offensive blazonry, Descended on the strand. Men of flint brows, hard hands and hearts, were they. Hunters of weaker men, Shedders of blood for. pleasure and for prey, Wolves of the Roman den. From their great home they had. come out so far, ' * Nor ever loss or shame Had lowered their fierce pride, they likened war To pestilence or flame i 134 DECIU^ BRUTUS. Frighting the tongueless caves with untuned cries, They leapt from stone, to stone ; But last^ and huge ring, with unheedy eyes, The leader came alone. • And suddenly upon the clear-edged orb. Fast- verging to the sea. He gazed, like one whom music doth absorb In mournful reverie. . • His burly limbs were frosted with strange cold. His blood grew half-asleep. Beholding the huge corpse of ruddy gold « Let down into the deep. At last to that wild crew he called aloud, " O soldiers ! we have been Too daring-hardy, — we h^ve been too proud, — Too much have done and seen. ' " It is a ventu'rous and unholy thing To try the utmost bound ° Of possibihty , — our frow^ard wing Has reacht forbidden ground. . DECIUS BRUTUS. 135 ft ' * * " We stand upon the earth's extremest ed^e. Beside the sacred bed * Of the Sun-god, — it is a privilege Too lofty not to dread." — \ • .• ' But they were drunk with glory as with wine, They heard him not that day ; That coast to them was nothing but a sign Of Rome's earth- circling sway ; Till when, like dancers by amazing thunder. Stunned in their mad career. Their bold mid-revel ceased for very wonder, Their insolence for fear. • • For they had caught a sound, first quive'ring low. Then wide'ning o'er the brine. As of a river slowly poured into • A red-hot iron mine^. • ■ • • * For the notiim of the fearful noise which accompanied the fall and quenching of the sun in the great Western Ocean, consult Strabo, lib. iii. ; Juvenal, xiv. 279 ; Ausonius, epist. xviii. The wide credit which this local tradition obtained may be inferred from the serious refutation of the phj^- sical fact in the second Book of the Cyclic Theory of Cleomed^. 136 DECIUS BRUTUS. And with confede'rate looks and held-in breath, They watcht the molten round Loosing its form, the swelte'ring ooze beneath, * • To that terrific sound. The hissing storm toward the darke'ning land •• A heated west- wind bore ; They closed their ears, they croucht upon the sand. But heard it more and more. » They saw the whole full Ocean boil and swell. Receiving such a guest As elemental Light inscrutable, Within its patient breast. At last into the void of dreary space The tumult seemed to roll, . And left no other noise on Nature's face Than the waves' muffled toll. . ° ' But to their first mistempered haughtiness Those hearts returned no more, — . They were encumbered with a sore distress, Crusht to the very core. ; * o DECIUS BRUTUS. 137 The Chief this while had stood apart, and bowed In penitential pain His staunch war-soul, till that now-supple croud • His voice thus reacht again : — • » ■ • ^' Oh what a sanctu'ary have we profaned . • In this unblest emprize ! . * • Oh that a jealous wrath may be restrained By timely sacrifice ! * " On these crag- altars let our choicest spoil Be laid with humblest prayer ; ' For what avails our valor or our toil, If angered Gods be there ? '^ As ye hold dear the memory of Rome, Implore the Lords of Heaven, That we once more may bear our victo'^ries home, This sacrilege forgiven ! '*'' • So was it done : — columns of vapo'rous grey Rose from that lone sea-glen, — And Brutus and lii's followers turned away Wiser and gentler men. 138 DECIUS BRUTUS. ^ Thus, in the time when Fancy was the nurse . ' Of our young human heart,* The Power whose voice is in the universe, And through each inmost part Vibrates, and in one total melody Man and Creation blends, Workt out by marvel and by prodigy o Its high religious ends.o Knowledge to us another scene displays. We fear nor sight nor sound ; Nature has bared her bosom, and we gaze Into the vast profound. A myriad of her subtlest harmonies Our learned ears can tell ; We dare those simple liste'ners to despise. But do we feci as well? THE DEATH OF ALMANZOR. Almanzor was the Campeador of the Moors in Spain, the guardian of the faineant King Ilixem :— it is thought he aspired to the crown. Two and fifty times Almanzor had the Christian host o'*ertlirown ; Still again the Christians gathered, by despair the stronger, grown. Cityless and momitain- refuged they approacht the Douro'^s shores. Falling, as a storm in summer, on the unsuspecting Moors. * . Valiantly the Moslem rallied, all unordered as they stood, . Till the Evening, in her shadow, bore them safe across • ... the flood. 140 THE 1)EATH OF ALMANZOR. Then they cried/ '' The stream's between us ; now can we their schemes defy ;''-r- • But the great Ahnanzot- spoke,-—'' I have retreated, and I die;' .''Allah, keep us from such evil!" prayed the faithful, crouding round, While the wise Arabian leech his wounds examined, stauncht, and bound. . . " Lightly has the Christian toucht thee, — much for thee ' is yet in store ; , ' Many are thy years, but Allah gives his conque'rors many more. " Do not the huge bells, that summoned pilgrims to lago's shrine. Hang within our prophet's temple, and confess thy work • * divine? • ■ " What is it that one small moment thou and thine did seem to yield, Wielders of Mohammed's sword^ and guarded by Mohammed's shield ? THE DEATH OF ALMANZOR. o ' 141 ''■ Few shall be their boastful hours, — thou in wrath wilt rise again ; ' ; . • • Thou shalt cleanse the mountains of them, like the cities and the plain."''' • . So consoled the duteous servant, but he could not still the cry * Bursting from Almanzor's lips,—" I have retreated, and I die." ' • ■ • ' Once he rose and feebly spoke, — '' My friends, I perish of self-scom ; Shame is come on my white hairs," — and thus he died the morrow-morn. Fiercest hands in sorrow trembled, as they deeply dug the' grave. On the spot where AzraePs lance had struck the captain of the brave. * .. * There his spirit's dearest brethren, closest comrades of his glory, \ • Laid him as a Moslem-martyr, in his garments torn and . gory^ 142 THE DEATH OF ALMANZOR. There too, from his side unseverecl, jay his old famihar brand, Never to be toucht and tarnisht by a le^s victorious hand. * * From a chest that in his marches ever had been borne before him, . * , Holy dust from two and fifty battle-fields was sprinkled o'er him ; . ^ . • While arose the imprecation, /' Utter Death to Chris- tian Spain ! " Praise to Jesus and his mother, that the vow was vowed ni vam : r. THE DEPARTURE OF ST. PATRICK FROM SCOTLAND. • •• FROM HIS OWN "CONFESSIONS." Twice to your son already has the hand of God been shewn/ . . Restoring him from ahen bonds to be once more your own, And now it is the self-same hand, dear kinsmen, that to-day ° • Shall take me for the third time from all I love away. While I look into your eyes, while I hold your hands in o • mine. What force could tear me from you, if it were not all * • divine? • Has. my love ever faltered ? Have I ever doubted yours I And think you I could yield me now to any earthly lures J 144 THE DEPARTURE OF ST. PATRICK FROM SCOTLAND. « I go not to some balmier land in . pleasant ease to rest, — » ' • I go not to content the pride that swells a mortal breafet,— I go about a work my God has chosen me to do ; Surely the soul which is his child must be his servant too. c I seek not the great city where our sacred father . dwells, — I seek not the blest eremites within their sandy • cell§, — I seek not our Redeemer'^s grave in distant Palestine, — Another, shortei: pilgrimage, a lonelier path is mine. When sunset clears and opens out the breadth of western sky, . ' ■ • To those who in yon mountain isles protect their flocks on high Loom tlie dark outlines of a land, whose nature and whose name • ; Some have by harsh experience learnt, and all by evil fame.. ' * THE DEPARTURE OF ST. PATRICK FROM SCOTLAND. 145 Oh, they are wild and wanton men, such as the best will be, • . * Who know no other gifts of God but to be bold and free. Who never saw how states are bound in golden bonds • of law, . . • * Who never knew how strongest hearts are bent by holy awe. * • When first into their pirate hands I fell, a very boy^ . Skirting the shore from rock to rock in unsuspecting joy. I had been taught to pray, and thus those slavish days were few, A wondrous hazard brought me back to liberty and you. .• . But when again they met me on the open ocean field. And might of numbers prest me round and forced my arm to yield, I had become a man like them, a selfish man of pride, I could have curst the will of God for shame I had not died. u • • 146 THE DEPARTURE OF ST. PATRICK FROM SCOTLAND. And still this torment haunted me three weary ye^rs, until That summer night, — among the sheep, — upon the sea- ward hill, . • When God of his miraculous grace, of his own saving thought, Came down upon my lonely heart and rested unbe- sought ! That night of light! I cared not that the day-star • • • ■• • • glimmered soon, . * . For in my new-begotten soul it was already noon ; I knew before what Christ had done, but never felt till then . A shadow of the love for him that he had felt for- 'men! Strong faith was in me,— on the shore there lay a stranded boat, I hasted down, I thrust it out, I felt it rock afloat ; With nervous arm and sturdy oar I sp6d my wate'ry way, • ' • • . ■ • .• The wind and tide \>ere trusty guides, — one God had 1 and they. • • - THE DEPARTURE OF ST. PATRICK FROM SCOTLAND. 147 As one from out the dead I stood among you free and whole, . '. My body Christ could well redeem, when he had saved my soul ; • • . And perfect peace embraced the life that had been only pain, For Love was shed upon my head from every thing, like rain.' Then on so sweetly flowed the time, I almost thought to sail Eve'n to the shores of Paradise in that unwave'ring gale, ". . When something rose and nightly stood between me and my rest, ' ^ . Most like some one, beside myself, reflecting in my breast. I ca/Unot put it into words, I only know it came, A sense of self-abasing weight, intolerable shame, '' That I should be so vile that not one tittle could be paid Of that enormous debt which Christ upon my soul had laid!" . • 148 THE DEPARTURE OF ST. PATRICK FROM SCOTLAND. * • • * This yielded to another mood, strange objects gathered » near, . - Phantoms that entered not by eye, and voices not by ear, . . The land of my injurious thrall a gracious aspect wore^ I yearned the most toward the forms I hated most before. I seemed again upon that hill, as on that blissful night, • • Encompast with celestial air and deep retiring light, But sight and thought were fettered down, where glim- me'ring lay below A plain of gasping, struggling, men in every shape of • ■ woe. • • • ' . Faint solemn whispers gathered round, ^' Christ suffered to redeem. Not you alone, but such as these, from this their savage dream, — • . • . Lo, here are souls enough for you to bring to him, and say, • . • . • These are the earnest of the debt I am too poor to pay.'^ THE DEPARTURE OF ST. PATRKK FROM SCOTLAND. 149 f A cloud of children freshly born, innumerable bands, Past by me with imploring eyes and little lifted hands, And all the Nature, I believed so blank and waste and dumb. Became instinct with life and love, and echoed clearly .• • ^^Come!^^ ^'Amen!'"' said I; with eager steps a rude descent I tried, And all the glory followed me like an on-coming tide, With trails of light about my feet I crost the darkling wild. And, as I toucht each suife'rer's hand, he rose and gently smiled. . ' Thus night on night the vision came, and left me not alone, . Until I swore that in that land should Christ be preacht and kno\Mi, And then at once strange coolness past on my long fevered brow. As from the flutter of light wings : I feel, I feel it now! 150 THE DETPARTURE OF &T PATRICK FROM SCOTLAND. And from thai moment unto this, this last and proving one, ' . I have been cahn and hght at heart as if the deed were done ; . I never thought how hard it was our earthly loves to lay Upon the altar of the Lord, and watch them melt away ! .' Speak, friends ! speak what you will, — but change those asking looks forlorn, — Sustain me with reproachful words, — uphold me with your scorn : . — I know God's heart is in me, but my human bosom • * fears * . ' * • " •• - Those drops that pierce it as they fall, those full and silent tears. ' • ' . These comrades of my earliest youth have pledged their pious care • To bear me to the fronting coast, and gently leave me there : . It may be I shall fall at once, with little toil or need, — Heaven ofteiv takes the simple will for the. most perfect deed: THE DEPARTURE OF ST. PATRICK FROM SCOTLAND. 151 Or, it may be that from that hour beneath my hand may spring . \ A line of glories unachieved by hero, sage, or king, — That Christ may glorify himself in this ignoble name. And shadow forth my endless life in my enduring fame. . • — All as He wills !* Now bless me, mother, — your cheek is almost dry: — Farewell, kind brothers !— only pray ye may be blest as I; • .Smile on me, sisters,— when death comes near each of you, still smile, And we jshall meet again somewhere, within a little o while ! CHARLEMAGNE, AND THE HYMN OF CHRIST And when tliey had sung an hymn, they went out into the mount of Olives. Matt; xxvi. 30 ; INIark xiv. ?6. The great King Karl sat in his secret room, — . He had sat there all day ; 6 He had not called on minstrel knight or groom To wile one hour away.. Of arms or royal toil he had no care, • Nor e'en of royal mirth ; As if a poor lone monk he rather were, Than lord of half the earth. CHARLEMAGNE. 153 » But chance he had some pleasant company, Dear wife, famiHar friend. With whom to let the quiet hours slip by, . As if they had no end. The learned Alcuin, that large-browed clerk. Was there within, and none beside ; A book they read, and, where the sense was dark, He was a trusty guide. What book had worth so long to occupy The thought of such a king. To make the weight of all that sovranty Be a forgotten thing ? . . Surely it were no other than the one, Whose every line is fraught With what a mightier king than He had done, . • Conquered, endured, and taught. r . • There his great soul, drawn onward by the eye, • ■ Saw in plain chronicle pourtrayed , The slow unfolding of the mystery On which its Ufe was stayed. X • » 154 CHARLEMAGNE. There read he how when Jesus, our dear Lord, To men of sin and dust had given. By the transforming magic of his word, The bread of very Heaven ; So that our race, by Adam's fatal food Reduced to base decline, Partaking of that body and that blood, Might be again divine, — After this wondrous largess, and before The unimagined pain, ' ' . Which, in Gethsemane, the Saviour bore Within his heart and brain, — He read, how these two acts of Love between. Ere that prolific day was dim, Christ and his Saints, like men with minds serene. Together sung an hymn. ,. These things he read in childly faith sincere. Then paused and fixt his eye. And said with kingly utterance — " I must hear . That Hymn before I die. CHARLEMAGNE. 155 '' I will send forth through sea and sun and snows, To lands of every tongue, To try if there be not some one which knows The music Jesus sung. ''For I have found delight in songs profane •. Trolled by a foohsh boy, And when the monks intone a pious strain, My heart is strong in joy ; .'' How blessed then to hear those harmonies. Which Christ's own voice divine engaged, 'T would be as if a wind from Paradise A wounded soul assuaged."" « • • - Within the Eiiipe'ror's mind that anxious thought Lay travai'Hng all night long, He dreamed that Magi to his hand had brought The burthen of the Song ; ' . .■ And when to his grave offices he rose, He kept his earnest will, • To offer untold guerdons unto those AVho should that dream fulfil. 4. 156 . CHARLEMAGNE. But first he called to counsel in the hall Wise priests of reve'rend name, And with an open counte'nance to them all . Declared his hope and aim. • He' said, 'Mt is God's pleasure, that my will Is made the natu ral law Of many nations, so that out of ill All good things I may draw. 6 ^' Therefore this holy mission I decree, Sparing no pains or cost, TJiat thus those sounds of dearest memory Be not for ever lost.'"* ' . . •. • * o They spake. '^ Tradition streameth thro"* our race, Most like the gentle whistling air, • •*To which of old Elias veiled his face. Conscious that God was. there : " • * « • * " Not in the stdrm, the earthquake, and the flame, That troubled Horeb's brow, . The splendor and the power of God then, came, Nor thus he cometh now. CHAULEMAGNE. 167 • " The jsilent water filteretli through earth, One day to bless the summer land ; ' The Word of God in Man slow bubbleth forth, Toucht by a worthy hand. '" Thus, in the memo'ry of some careful Jew May lurk the record of a tune ° Wont to be sung in ceremonial due After the Paschal noon ; o . ''And thy deep yearning for this mystic song . May give mankind at last • \ Some charm and blessing that has slept full long The slumber of the Past." • The King rejoiced, and, at this high behest. Men to all toil and change inured, Past out to search the World if East or West That legend still endured. * What good or ill those ventu rous hearts befell, What glory or what shame, — • How far they wandered, I have not to tell ;* Each has his separate famO. • 168 CHARLEMAGNE. I only know, that when the weight of hours The prime of mortal heads had bowed, He, slowly letting go his outward powers, Spoke from his couch aloud : — '^ My soul has waited many' a lingering year To. taste that one delight. And now I know at last that I shall hear The hymn of Christ to-night. '^ Look out, good friends! be prompt to welcome home, Straight to my presence bring. My messengers, who hither furnisht come The Song of Christ to sing/' * • * • Dark sank that night, but darker rose the morn, That found the western earth Of the divinest presence stript and shorn It ever woke to birth. o • It seemed beyond the common lawful sway Of Death and Nature o'^er our kind, That such a one as He should pass away, And aught be left behind. • ' CHARLEMAGNE. 159 In Aachen Abbey's consecrated round, Within the hollowed stone, They placed the' imperial Body, robed and cro^vned, Seated, as on a throne. While the blest Spirit holds communion free With that eternal quire, Of which on earth to trace the memory Was his devout desire. THE BEGGAR'S CASTLE*. . A STORY OF THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. Those ruins took my thoughts away To a far eastern land ; Like camels, in a herd they lay Upon the dull red sand ; I know not that I ever sate Within a place so desolate. >x UnHke the relics that convert Our hearts with antient Tim«, All moss-besprent and ivy-deckt, Gracing a lenient clime, Here all was death and nothing born, — No life but the unfriendly thorn. . * I am indebted for this legend, and part of its conduct, to Jean Reboul, the baker-poet of Nismes, the Burns of modern France. THE BEGGAR'S CASTLE. IGl " My little guide, whose sunny eyes And darkly-lucid skin, Witness, in spite of shrouded skies, Where southern realms begin ; Come, tell me all you ve heard and know About these mighty things laid low.'' The Beggar's Castle, wayward name, Was all these fragments bore, And wherefore legendary fame Baptized them thus of yore, He told in words so sweet and true, I wish that he could tell it you. A puissant Seigneur, who in wars And tournays had renown, With wealth from prudent ancestors Sloping unbroken down, Dwelt in these towers, and held in fee All the broad lands that eve can see. H)2 THE BEGGAR'S CASTLE. « He never tempered to the poor Misfortune's bitter blast. And when before his haughty door Widow and orphan past, Injurious words, and dogs at bay, Were all the welcome that had they. The Monk who toiled from place to place, That God might have his dole, Was met by scorn and foul grimace, And oaths that pierced his soul ; 'T was well for him to flee and pray, ^' They know not what they do and say/' One evening, when both plain and wood Were trackless in the snow, A Beggar at the portal stood, Who little seemed to know That Castle and its evil fame. As if from distant shores he came. THE BEGGAR'S CASTLE. ' 163 Like channelled granite was his front, . His hair was crisp with rime, — He askt admittance, as was wont In that free-hearted time ; For who would leave to die i' the cold A lonely man and awful-old. At first his prayer had no reply, — Perchance the wild wind checkt it, But when it rose into a cry. No more the inmates reckt it, Till where the cheerful fire-light shone, A voice out-thundered,— '' Wretch ! begone." '' There is no path, — I have no strength, What can I do alone ? Grant shelter, or I lay my length, And perish on the stone ; I crave not much, — I should be blest In kennel or in barn to rest.'' 164 THE BEGGAR'S CASTLE. "• What matters thy vile head to me? Dare not to touch the door ! ''' ""^ Ahis ! and shall I never see Home, wife, and children more?" — '' If thou art still importunate, My serfs shall nail thee to the gate.**' But, when the wrathful Seigneur faced The object of his ire, The beggar raised his brow debased And armed his eyes with fire : '^ Whatever guise is on me now, I am a mightier Lord than thou ! •>•) '' Madman or cheat ! announce thy birth.'' — '^ That thou wilt know to-morrow.'' '' Where are thy fiefs?" — '' The whole wide Earth.' '' And what thy title?" — '' Sorrow." Then opo'ning wide his ragged vest, He cried, — '' Thou canst not shun thy guest.'' ■"Urn THE BEGGAR'S CASTLE. 165 He stampt his foot with fearful din,— With imprecating hand He struck the door, and past within Right through the menial band : '' Follow him, seize him, — There — and there !'' They only saw the blank night air. But He was at his work : ere day Began the work of doom. The Lord's one daughter, one bright may, Fled with a base-born groom, . * . Bearing about, where'er she came, The blighting of an antient name. His single son, that second self. Who, when his first should fall. Would hold his lands and hoarded pelf, Died in a drunken brawl ; — And now alone amidst his gold He stood, ^nd felt his heart was cold. 166 .THE BEGGAR^S CASTLE. Till, like a large and patient sea Once roused by cruel weather. Came by the raging Jacquerie, And swept away together Him and all his, save that which time Has hoarded to suggest our rhyme. THE END. LONDON : BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. z M-. / •m Ml ■•>■<> .i^^"^' T t^ * J M^^ ^. ^-^^ '-^ -^•.-■'. ^j^i :^:c? '!>^'ife¥?rl^'- ^x^-..^. m )^'