Tales and Historic Scenes

SECOND SERIES.

[After the first collection of her Tales and Historic Scenes, it is pretty evident that Mrs Hemans contemplated a second series, although her design was never so extensively carried out as to induce the publication of another volume under the same title. But, as the compositions we refer to all belong to this period of our author’s literary progress, we have ventured not only so to class, but so to christen them, as Malachi Malgrowther would say, “for uniformity’s sake.”

The Maremma.

[“Nello della Pietra had espoused a lady of noble family at Sienna, named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by false reports and groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the desperate resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether the lady was quite innocent, but so Dante represents her. Her husband brought her into the Maremma, which, then as now, was a district destructive of health. He never told his unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to so dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint or accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, without answering her questions, or listening to her remonstrances. He patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy the health of this young lady. In a few months she died. Some chronicles, indeed, tell us that Nello used the dagger to hasten her death. It is certain that he survived her, plunged in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, in this incident, all the materials of an ample and very poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. He meets in Purgatory three spirits. One was a captain who fell fighting on the same side with him in the battle of Campaldino; the second, a gentleman assassinated by the treachery of the House of Este; the third was a woman unknown to the poet, and who, after the others had spoken, turned towards him with these words:—

Recorditi di me; che son la Pia,
Sienna mi fe, disfecerni Maremma,
Salsi colui che inanellata pria
Disposando m’ avea con la sua gemma.’”
Purgatorio, cant. v.

—Edinburgh Review, No. lvii.]

There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies,
Where glowing suns there purest light diffuse,
Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise,
And nature lavishes her warmest hues;
But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath—
Away! her charms are but the pomp of Death!

He in the vine-clad bowers, unseen, is dwelling,
Where the cool shade its freshness round thee throws;
His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling,
With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose;
And the soft sounds that through the foliage sigh
But woo thee still to slumber and to die.

Mysterious danger lurks, a syren there,
Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom,
But stealing o’er thee in the scented air,
And veil’d in flowers, that smile to deck thy tomb;
How may we deem, amidst their deep array,
That heaven and earth but flatter to betray?

Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure! Can it be
That these but charm us with destructive wiles?
Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in thee
Danger is mask’d in beauty—death in smiles?
Oh! still the Circe of that fatal shore,
Where she, the Sun’s bright daughter, dwelt of yore!

There, year by year, that secret peril spreads,
Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign,
And viewless blights o’er many a landscape sheds,
Gay with the riches of the south, in vain;
O’er fairy bowers and palaces of state
Passing unseen, to leave them desolate.

And pillar’d halls, whose airy colonnades
Were form’d to echo music’s choral tone,
Are silent now, amidst deserted shades,
Peopled by sculpture’s graceful forms alone;
And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves,
Neglected temples, and forsaken groves.

And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty gleaming,
Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise.
By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming
Of old Arcadia’s woodland deities.
Wild visions!—there no sylvan powers convene:
Death reigns the genius of th’ Elysian scene.

Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome! that bear
Traces of mightier beings on your brow,
O’er you that subtle spirit of the air
Extends the desert of his empire now;
Broods o’er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome,
And makes the Cæsars’ ruin’d halls his home.

Youth, valour, beauty, oft have felt his power.
His crown’d and chosen victims: o’er their lot
Hath fond affection wept—each blighted flower
In turn was loved and mourn’d, and is forgot.
But one who perish’d, left a tale of woe,
Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow.

A voice of music, from Sienna’s walls,
Is floating joyous on the summer air;
And there are banquets in her stately halls,
And graceful revels of the gay and fair,
And brilliant wreaths the altar have array’d,
Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest maid.

To that young bride each grace hath Nature given
Which glows on Art’s divinest dream: her eye
Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven—
Her cheek a tinge of morning’s richest dye;
Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form
Still breathes and charms, in Vinci’s colours warm.

But is she blest?—for sometimes o’er her smile
A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast;
And in her liquid glance there seems awhile
To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past;
Yet soon it flies—a cloud that leaves no trace,
On the sky’s azure, of its dwelling-place.

Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise
Remembrance of some early love or woe,
Faded, yet scarce forgotten—in her eyes
Wakening the half-formed tear that may not flow,
Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth,
Where still some pining thought comes darkly o’er our mirth.

The world before her smiles—its changeful gaze
She hath not proved as yet; her path seems gay
With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of praise
Is still the joyous herald of her way;
And beauty’s light around her dwells, to throw
O’er every scene its own resplendent glow.

Such is the young Bianca—graced with all
That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give;
Pure in their loveliness, her looks recall
Such dreams as ne’er life’s early bloom survive;
And when she speaks, each thrilling tone is fraught
With sweetness, born of high and heavenly thought.

And he to whom are breathed her vows of faith
Is brave and noble—child of high descent,
He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death,
Mid slaughter’d heaps, the warrior’s monument;
And proudly marshall’d his carroccio’s way
Amidst the wildest wreck of war’s array.

And his the chivalrous commanding mien,
Where high-born grandeur blends with courtly grace;
Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen,
Of fiery passions, darting o’er his face,
And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye—
But e’en while yet we gaze, its quick wild flashes die.

And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing,
As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse;
And veil the workings of each darker feeling,
Deep in his soul concentrating its force;
But yet he loves—Oh! who hath loved, nor known
Affection’s power exalt the bosom all its own?

The days roll on—and still Bianca’s lot
Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem
That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot
To wake her soul from life’s enchanted dream;
And, if her brow a moment’s sadness wear,
It sheds but grace more intellectual there.

A few short years, and all is changed; her fate
Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o’ercast.
Have jealous doubts transform’d to wrath and hate,
The love whose glow expression’s power surpass’d?
Lo! on Pietra’s brow a sullen gloom
Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom.

Oh! can he meet that eye, of light serene,
Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth,
And view that bright intelligence of mien
Form’d to express but thoughts of loftiest worth,
Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign?
—How shall he e’er confide in aught on earth again?

In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze.
Transient, yet fill’d with meaning, stern and wild,
Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys,
Then turns away, and fixes on her child
So dark a glance as thrills a mother’s mind
With some vague fear scarce own’d, and undefined.

There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave
Of the blue deep which bathes Italia’s shore,
Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave
Gray rocks with foliage richly shadow’d o’er,
And sighing winds, that murmur through the wood,
Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood.

Fair is that house of solitude—and fair
The green Maremma, far around it spread,
A sun-bright waste of beauty; yet an air
Of brooding sadness o’er the scene is shed,
No human footstep tracks the lone domain,
The desert of luxuriance glows in vain.

And silent are the marble halls that rise
’Mid founts, and cypress walks and olive groves:
All sleep in sunshine, ’neath cerulean skies,
And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves;
Yet every trace of man reveals alone,
That there life once hath flourish’d—and is gone.

There, till around them slowly, softly stealing,
The summer air, deceit in every sigh,
Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing,
Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt in days gone by;
And strains of mirth and melody have flow’d
Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode.

And thither doth her Lord remorseless bear
Bianca with her child. His alter’d eye
And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear,
While his dark spirit seals their doom—to die;
And the deep bodings of his victim’s heart
Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part.

It is the summer’s glorious prime—and blending
Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep,
Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending,
Scarce murmurs as it heaves in glassy sleep,
And on its wave reflects, more softly bright,
That lovely shore of solitude and light.

Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing,
Deck’d with young flowers the rich Maremma glows,
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing,
And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows,
And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb.

Yes! ’tis thy tomb, Bianca! fairest flower!
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale,
Which, o’er thee breathing with insidious power,
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale;
And fatal in its softness, day by day,
Steals from that eye some trembling spark away.

But sink not yet; for there are darker woes,
Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading—
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading!
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot:
’Tis agony—but soon to be forgot!

What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring,
Than hourly to behold the spoiler’s breath
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring,
O’er Infancy’s fair cheek the blight of death?
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o’ercast
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last!

Such pangs were thine, young mother! Thou didst bend
O’er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head;
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend,
Keep thy sad midnight vigils near his bed,
And watch his patient, supplicating eye
Fix’d upon thee—on thee!—who couldst no aid supply!

There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe
Through those dark hours: to thee the wind’s low sigh,
And the faint murmur of the ocean’s flow,
Came like some spirit whispering—“He must die!”
And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast,
His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest.

’Tis past—that fearful trial!—he is gone!
But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep;
The hour of nature’s charter’d peace comes on,
And thou shalt share thine infant’s holy sleep.
A few short sufferings yet—and death shall be
As a bright messenger from heaven to thee.

But ask not—hope not—one relenting thought
From him who doom’d thee thus to waste away,
Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance fraught,
Broods in dark triumph o’er thy slow decay;
And coldly, sternly, silently can trace
The gradual withering of each youthful grace.

And yet the day of vain remorse shall come,
When thou, bright victim! on his dreams shalt rise
As an accusing angel—and thy tomb,
A martyr’s shrine, be hallow’d in his eyes!
Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring,
More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting.

Lift thy meek eyes to heaven—for all on earth,
Young sufferer! fades before thee. Thou art lone:
Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth,
Thine hour of death is all Affliction’s own!
It is our task to suffer—and our fate
To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late.

The season’s glory fades—the vintage lay
Through joyous Italy resounds no more;
But mortal loveliness hath pass’d away,
Fairer than aught in summer’s glowing store.
Beauty and youth are gone—behold them such
As death hath made them with his blighting touch!

The summer’s breath came o’er them—and they died!
Softly it came to give luxuriance birth,
Call’d forth young nature in her festal pride,
But bore to them their summons from the earth!
Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze,
And wake to life and light all flowers—but these.

No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling,
O lost and loveliest one! adorns thy grave;
But o’er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling
The dew-drops glisten and the wild-flowers wave—
Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom,
For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb!

A Tale of the Secret Tribunal.

[The Secret Tribunal, which attained such formidable power towards the close of the fourteenth century, is mentioned in history as an institution publicly known so early as in the year 1211. Its members, who were called Free Judges, were unknown to the people, and were bound by a tremendous oath, to deliver up their dearest friends and relatives, without exception, if they had committed any offence cognisable by the tribunal. They were also under an obligation to relate all they knew concerning the affair, to cite the accused, and, in case of his condemnation, to pursue and put him to death wherever he might be met with. The proceedings of this tribunal were carried on at night, and with the greatest mystery; and though it was usual to summon a culprit three times before sentence was passed, yet persons obnoxious to it were sometimes accused and condemned without any citation. After condemnation, it was almost impossible for any one to escape the vengeance of the Free Judges, for their commands set thousands of assassins in motion, who had sworn not to spare the life of their nearest relation, if required to sacrifice it, but to execute the decrees of the Order with the most devoted obedience, even should they consider the object of their pursuit as the most innocent of men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune sought admission into the society; there were Free Judges even amongst the magistrates of the imperial cities, and every prince had some of their Order in his council. When a member of this tribunal was not of himself strong enough to seize and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose sight of him until he met with a sufficient number of his comrades for the purpose, and these were obliged, upon his making certain signs, to lend him immediate assistance, without asking any questions. It was usual to hang up the person condemned, with a willow branch, to the first tree; but if circumstances obliged them to despatch him with a poniard, they left it in his body, that it might be known he had not been assassinated, but executed by a Free Judge. All the transactions of the Sages or Seers (as they called themselves) were enveloped in mystery, and it is even now unknown by what signs they revealed themselves to each other. At length their power became so extensive and redoubtable, that the Princes of the Empire found it necessary to unite their exertions for its suppression, in which they were at length successful.

The following account of this extraordinary association is given by Madame de Staël:—“Des juges mystérieux, inconnus l’un à l’autre, toujours masqués, et se rassemblant pendant la nuit, punissoient dans le silence, et gravoient seulement sur le poignard qu’ils enfoncoient dans le sein du coupable ce mot terrible: Tribunal Secret. Ils prévenoient le condamne, en faisant crier trois fois sous les fenêtres de sa maison, Malheur, Malheur, Malheur! Alors l’infortuné savoit que par-tout, dans l’étranger, dans son concitoyen, dans son parent même, il pouvoit trouver son meurtrier. La solitude, la foule, les villes, les campagnes, tout étoit rempli par la présence invisible de cette conscience armée qui poursuivoit les criminels. On concoit comment cette terrible institution pouvoit être nécessaire, dans un temps où chaque homme étoit fort contre tous, au lieu que tous doivent être forts contre chacun. Il falloit que la justice surprit le criminel avant qu’il pût s’en défendre; mais cette punition qui planoit dans les airs comme une ombre vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui pouvoit receler le sein même d’un ami, frappoit d’une invincible terreur.”—L’Allemagne, vol. ii.]

Night veil’d the mountains of the vine,
And storms had roused the foaming Rhine,
And, mingling with the pinewood’s roar,
Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore,
While glen and cavern, to their moans
Gave answer with a thousand tones:
Then, as the voice of storms appall’d
The peasant of the Odenwald,
Shuddering he deem’d, that, far on high,
’Twas the wild huntsman rushing by,
Riding the blast with phantom speed,
With cry of hound and tramp of steed,
While his fierce train, as on they flew,
Their horns in savage chorus blew,
Till rock, and tower, and convent round,
Rang to the shrill unearthly sound.

Vain dreams! far other footsteps traced
The forest paths, in secret haste;
Far other sounds were on the night,
Though lost amidst the tempest’s might,
That fill’d the echoing earth and sky
With its own awful harmony.
There stood a lone and ruin’d fane,
Far in the Odenwald’s domain,
Midst wood and rock, a deep recess
Of still and shadowy loneliness.
Long grass its pavement had o’ergrown,
The wild-flower waved o’er the altar stone,
The night-wind rock’d the tottering pile,
As it swept along the roofless aisle,
For the forest boughs and the stormy sky
Were all that minster’s canopy.

Many a broken image lay
In the mossy mantle of decay,
And partial light the moonbeams darted
O’er trophies of the long-departed;
For there the chiefs of other days,
The mighty, slumber’d, with their praise:
’Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven
A tribute to their bier had given,
Long since a sound but the moaning blast
Above their voiceless home had pass’d.
—So slept the proud, and with them all
The records of their fame and fall;
Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest,
Adorn’d the dwelling of their rest,
And emblems of the Holy Land
Were carved by some forgotten hand.
But the helm was broke, the shield defaced,
And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced;
And the scatter’d leaves of the northern pine
Half hid the palm of Palestine.
So slept the glorious—lowly laid,
As the peasant in his native shade;
Some hermit’s tale, some shepherd’s rhyme,
All that high deeds could win from time!

What footsteps move, with measured tread,
Amid those chambers of the dead?
What silent, shadowy beings glide
Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside,
Peopling the wild and solemn scene
With forms well suited to its mien?
Wanderer, away! let none intrude
On their mysterious solitude!
Lo! these are they, that awful band,
The secret Watchers of the land,
They that, unknown and uncontroll’d,
Their dark and dread tribunal hold.
They meet not in the monarch’s dome,
They meet not in the chieftain’s home;
But where, unbounded o’er their heads,
All heaven magnificently spreads,
And from its depths of cloudless blue
The eternal stars their deeds may view!
Where’er the flowers of the mountain sod
By roving foot are seldom trod;
Where’er the pathless forest waves,
Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves;
Where’er wild legends mark a spot,
By mortals shunn’d, but unforgot,
There, circled by the shades of night,
They judge of crimes that shrink from light;
And guilt, that deems its secret known
To the One unslumbering eye alone,
Yet hears their name with a sudden start,
As an icy touch had chill’d its heart,
For the shadow of th’ avenger’s hand
Rests dark and heavy on the land.

There rose a voice from the ruin’s gloom,
And woke the echoes of the tomb,
As if the noble hearts beneath
Sent forth deep answers to its breath.

“When the midnight stars are burning,
And the dead to earth returning;
When the spirits of the blest
Rise upon the good man’s rest;
When each whisper of the gale
Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale;
In the shadow of the hour
That o’er the soul hath deepest power,
Why thus meet we, but to call
For judgment on the criminal?
Why, but the doom of guilt to seal,
And point th’ avenger’s holy steel?
A fearful oath has bound our souls,
A fearful power our arm controls!
There is an ear awake on high
E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die;
There is an eye whose beam pervades
All depths, all deserts, and all shades:
That ear hath heard our awful vow,
That searching eye is on us now!
Let him whose heart is unprofaned,
Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain’d—
Let him, whose thoughts no record keep
Of crimes in silence buried deep,
Here, in the face of heaven, accuse
The guilty whom its wrath pursues!”

’Twas hush’d—that voice of thrilling sound!
And a dead silence reign’d around.
Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form
Tower’d like a phantom in the storm;
Gathering his mantle, as a cloud,
With its dark folds his face to shroud,
Through pillar’d arches on he pass’d,
With stately step, and paused at last,
Where, on the altar’s mouldering stone,
The fitful moonbeam brightly shone;
Then on the fearful stillness broke
Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke:

“Before that eye whose glance pervades
All depths, all deserts, and all shades;
Heard by that ear awake on high
E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die—
With all a mortal’s awe I stand,
Yet with pure heart and stainless hand.
To heaven I lift that hand, and call
For judgment on the criminal;
The earth is dyed with bloodshed’s hues—
It cries for vengeance. I accuse!”

“Name thou the guilty! say for whom
Thou claim’st th’ inevitable doom!

“Albert of Lindheim—to the skies
The voice of blood against him cries;
A brother’s blood—his hand is dyed
With the deep stain of fratricide.
One hour, one moment, hath reveal’d
What years in darkness had conceal’d,
But all in vain—the gulf of time
Refused to close upon his crime;
And guilt that slept on flowers shall know
The earthquake was but hush’d below!
—Here, where amidst the noble dead,
Awed by their fame, he dare not tread;
Where, left by him to dark decay,
Their trophies moulder fast away,
Around us and beneath us lie
The relics of his ancestry—
The chiefs of Lindheim’s ancient race,
Each in his last low dwelling-place.
But one is absent—o’er his grave
The palmy shades of Syria wave;
Far distant from his native Rhine,
He died unmourn’d, in Palestine!
The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land,
To perish by a brother’s hand!
Peace to his soul! though o’er his bed
No dirge be pour’d, no tear be shed,
Though all he loved his name forget,
They live who shall avenge him yet!”

“Accuser! how to thee alone
Became the fearful secret known?”

“There is an hour when vain remorse
First wakes in her eternal force;
When pardon may not be retrieved,
When conscience will not be deceived.
He that beheld the victim bleed,
Beheld, and aided in the deed—
When earthly fears had lost their power
Reveal’d the tale in such an hour,
Unfolding, with his latest breath,
All that gave keener pangs to death.”

“By Him, th’ All-seeing and Unseen,
Who is for ever, and hath been,
And by th’ Atoner’s cross adored,
And by th’ avenger’s holy sword,
By truth eternal and divine,
Accuser! wilt thou swear to thine?”
—“The cross upon my heart is prest,
I hold the dagger to my breast;
If false the tale whose truth I swear,
Be mine the murderer’s doom to bear!”

Then sternly rose the dread reply—
“His days are number’d—he must die!
There is no shadow of the night
So deep as to conceal his flight;
Earth doth not hold so lone a waste
But there his footsteps shall be traced;
Devotion hath no shrine so blest
That there in safety he may rest.
Where’er he treads, let Vengeance there
Around him spread her secret snare!
In the busy haunts of men,
In the still and shadowy glen,
When the social board is crown’d,
When the wine-cup sparkles round;
When his couch of sleep is prest,
And a dream his spirit’s guest;
When his bosom knows no fear,
Let the dagger still be near,
Till, sudden as the lightning’s dart,
Silent and swift it reach his heart!
One warning voice, one fearful word,
Ere morn beneath his towers be heard,
Then vainly may the guilty fly,
Unseen, unaided,—he must die!
Let those he loves prepare his tomb,
Let friendship lure him to his doom!
Perish his deeds, his name, his race,
Without a record or a trace!
Away! be watchful, swift, and free,
To wreak th’ invisible’s decree.
’Tis pass’d—th’ avenger claims his prey:
On to the chase of death—away!”

And all was still. The sweeping blast
Caught not a whisper as it pass’d;
The shadowy forms were seen no more,
The tombs deserted as before;
And the wide forest waved immense
In dark and lone magnificence.
In Lindheim’s towers the feast had closed
The song was hush’d, the bard reposed;
Sleep settled on the weary guest,
And the castle’s lord retired to rest.
To rest! The captive doom’d to die
May slumber, when his hour is nigh;
The seaman, when the billows foam,
Rock’d on the mast, may dream of home;
The warrior, on the battle’s eve,
May win from care a short reprieve:
But earth and heaven alike deny
Their peace to guilt’s o’erwearied eye;
And night, that brings to grief a calm,
To toil a pause, to pain a balm,
Hath spells terrific in her course,
Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse—
Voices, that long from earth had fled,
And steps and echoes from the dead;
And many a dream whose forms arise
Like a darker world’s realities!
Call them not vain illusions—born,
But for the wise and brave to scorn!
Heaven, that the penal doom defers,
Hath yet its thousand ministers,
To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown,
In shade, in silence, and alone,
Concentrating in one brief hour
Ages of retribution’s power!
—If thou wouldst know the lot of those,
Whose souls are dark with guilty woes,
Ah! seek them not where pleasure’s throng
Are listening to the voice of song;
Seek them not where the banquet glows,
And the red vineyard’s nectar flows:
There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek,
The eye of feverish joy may speak,
And smiles, the ready mask of pride,
The canker-worm within may hide.
Heed not those signs! they but delude;
Follow, and mark their solitude!

The song is hush’d, the feast is done,
And Lindheim’s lord remains alone—
Alone in silence and unrest,
With the dread secret of his breast;
Alone with anguish and with fear,
—There needs not an avenger here!
Behold him!—Why that sudden start?
Thou hear’st the beating of thy heart!
Thou hear’st the night-wind’s hollow sigh,
Thou hear’st the rustling tapestry!
No sound but these may near thee be;
Sleep! all things earthly sleep—but thee.

No! there are murmurs on the air,
And a voice is heard that cries—“Despair!”
And he who trembles fain would deem
’Twas the whisper of a waking dream.
Was it but this? Again, ’tis there:
Again is heard—“Despair! Despair!”
’Tis past—its tones have slowly died
In echoes on the mountain side;
Heard but by him, they rose, they fell.
He knew their fearful meaning well,
And shrinking from the midnight gloom,
As from the shadow of the tomb,
Yet shuddering, turn’d in pale dismay,
When broke the dawn’s first kindling ray,
And sought, amidst the forest wild,
Some shade where sunbeam never smiled.

Yes! hide thee, guilt! The laughing morn
Wakes in a heaven of splendour born!
The storms that shook the mountain crest
Have sought their viewless world of rest.
High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze,
Soars the young eagle in the blaze,
Exulting, as he wings his way,
To revel in the fount of day;
And brightly past his banks of vine,
In glory, flows the monarch Rhine;
And joyous peals the vintage song
His wild luxuriant shores along,
As peasant bands, from rock and dell,
Their strains of choral transport swell;
And cliffs of bold fantastic forms,
Aspiring to the realm of storms,
And woods around, and waves below,
Catch the red Orient’s deepening glow,
That lends each tower, and convent spire,
A tinge of its ethereal fire.

Swell high the song of festal hours!
Deck ye the shrine with living flowers!
Let music o’er the waters breathe!
Let beauty twine the bridal wreath!
While she, whose blue eye laughs in light,
Whose cheek with love’s own hue is bright,
The fair-hair’d maid of Lindheim’s hall,
Wakes to her nuptial festival.
Oh! who hath seen, in dreams that soar
To worlds the soul would fain explore,
When, for her own blest country pining,
Its beauty o’er her thought is shining,
Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye
Was all one beam of ecstasy!
Whose glorious brow no traces wore
Of guilt, or sorrow known before!
Whose smile, undimm’d by aught of earth,
A sunbeam of immortal birth,
Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying,
Where love and joy are both undying!
E’en thus—a vision of delight,
A beam to gladden mortal sight,
A flower whose head no storm had bow’d,
Whose leaves ne’er droop’d beneath a cloud,—
Thus, by the world unstain’d, untried,
Seem’d that beloved and lovely bride;
A being all too soft and fair
One breath of earthly woe to bear!
Yet lives there many a lofty mind,
In light and fragile form enshrined;
And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye
Hide strength to suffer and to die!
Judge not of woman’s heart in hours
That strew her path with summer flowers,
When joy’s full cup is mantling high,
When flattery’s blandishments are nigh;
Judge her not then! within her breast
Are energies unseen, that rest!
They wait their call—and grief alone
May make the soul’s deep secrets known.
Yes! let her smile midst pleasure’s train,
Leading the reckless and the vain!
Firm on the scaffold she hath stood,
Besprinkled with the martyr’s blood;
Her voice the patriot’s heart hath steel’d,
Her spirit glow’d on battle-field;
Her courage freed from dungeon’s gloom
The captive brooding o’er his doom;
Her faith the fallen monarch saved,
Her love the tyrant’s fury braved;
No scene of danger or despair,
But she hath won her triumph there!

Away! nor cloud the festal morn
With thoughts of boding sadness born!
Far other, lovelier dreams are thine,
Fair daughter of a noble line!
Young Ella! from thy tower, whose height
Hath caught the flush of Eastern light,
Watching, while soft the morning air
Parts on thy brow the sunny hair,
Yon bark, that o’er the calm blue tide
Bears thy loved warrior to his bride—
Him, whose high deeds romantic praise
Hath hallow’d with a thousand lays.

He came—that youthful chief,—he came
That favour’d lord of love and fame!
His step was hurried—as if one
Who seeks a voice within to shun;
His cheek was varying, and express’d
The conflict of a troubled breast;
His eye was anxious—doubt, and dread,
And a stem grief, might there be read:
Yet all that mark’d his alter’d mien
Seem’d struggling to be still unseen.
—With shrinking heart, with nameless fear,
Young Ella met the brow austere,
And the wild look, which seem’d to fly
The timid welcome of her eye.
Was that a lover’s gaze, which chill’d
The soul, its awful sadness thrill’d?
A lover’s brow, so darkly fraught
With all the heaviest gloom of thought?
She trembled—ne’er to grief inured,
By its dread lessons ne’er matured,
Unused to meet a glance of less
Than all a parent’s tenderness,
Shuddering she felt, through every sense,
The deathlike faintness of suspense.

High o’er the windings of the flood,
On Lindheim’s terraced rocks they stood,
Whence the free sight afar might stray
O’er that imperial river’s way,
Which, rushing from its Alpine source,
Makes one long triumph of its course,
Rolling in tranquil grandeur by,
Midst Nature’s noblest pageantry.
But they, o’er that majestic scene,
With clouded brow and anxious mien,
In silence gazed!—for Ella’s heart
Fear’d its own terrors to impart;
And he, who vainly strove to hide
His pangs, with all a warrior’s pride,
Seem’d gathering courage to unfold
Some fearful tale, that must be told.

At length his mien, his voice, obtain’d
A calm, that seem’d by conflicts gain’d,
As thus he spoke—“Yes! gaze a while
On the bright scenes that round thee smile;
For, if thy love be firm and true,
Soon must thou bid their charms adieu!
A fate hangs o’er us, whose decree
Must bear me far from them or thee;
Our path is one of snares and fear,
I lose thee, if I linger here!
Droop not, beloved! thy home shall rise
As fair, beneath far-distant skies;
As fondly tenderness and truth
Shall cherish there thy rose of youth.
But speak! and, when yon hallow’d shrine
Hath heard the vows which make thee mine,
Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more
To tread thine own loved mountain shore,
But share and soothe, repining not,
The bitterness of exile’s lot?”

“Ulric! thou know’st how dearly loved
The scenes where first my childhood roved;
The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme
Above our own majestic stream,
The halls where first my heart beat high
To the proud songs of chivalry.
All, all are dear—yet these are ties
Affection well may sacrifice;
Loved though they be, where’er thou art,
There is the country of my heart!
Yet is there one, who, reft of me,
Were lonely as a blasted tree;
One, who still hoped my hand should close
His eyes, in Nature’s last repose;
Eve gathers round him—on his brow
Already rests the wintry snow;
His form is bent, his features wear
The deepening lines of age and care;
His faded eye hath lost its fire;—
Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire?
Yet tell me all—thy woes impart,
My Ulric! to a faithful heart,
Which sooner far—oh! doubt not this—
Would share thy pangs, than others’ bliss!”

“Ella, what wouldst thou?—’tis a tale
Will make that cheek as marble pale!
Yet what avails it to conceal
All thou too soon must know and feel?
It must, it must be told—prepare,
And nerve that gentle heart to bear.
But I—oh, was it then for me
The herald of thy woes to be!
Thy soul’s bright calmness to destroy,
And wake thee first from dreams of joy?
Forgive!—I would not ruder tone
Should make the fearful tidings known,
I would not that unpitying eyes
Should coldly watch thine agonies!
Better ’twere mine—that task severe,
To cloud thy breast with grief and fear.

“Hast thou not heard, in legends old,
Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold,
Of those who meet in cave or glen,
Far from the busy walks of men;
Those who mysterious vigils keep,
When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep,
To judge of crimes, like Him on high,
In stillness and in secrecy?
Th’ unknown avengers, whose decree
’Tis fruitless to resist or flee?
Whose name hath cast a spell of power
O’er peasant’s cot and chieftain’s tower?
Thy sire—oh, Ella! hope is fled!
Think of him, mourn him, as the dead!
Their sentence, theirs, hath seal’d his doom,
And thou may’st weep as o’er his tomb!
Yes, weep!—relieve thy heart oppress’d,
Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast!
Thy cheek is cold—thy tearless eye
Seems fix’d in frozen vacancy.
Oh, gaze not thus!—thy silence break:
Speak! if ’tis but in anguish, speak!”

She spoke at length, in accents low,
Of wild and half-indignant woe:
—“He doom’d to perish! he decreed
By their avenging arm to bleed!
He, the renown’d in holy fight,
The Paynim’s scourge, the Christian’s might!
Ulric! what mean’st thou?—not a thought
Of that high mind with guilt is fraught!
Say, for which glorious trophy won,
Which deed of martial prowess done,
Which battle-field, in days gone by,
Gain’d by his valour, must he die?
Away! ’tis not his lofty name
Their sentence hath consign’d to shame—
’Tis not his life they seek. Recall
Thy words, or say he shall not fall!”

Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief
Gave pleading softness to her grief:
“And wilt thou not, by all the ties
Of our affianced love,” she cries,
“By all my soul hath fix’d on thee,
Of cherish’d hope for years to be,
Wilt thou not aid him? wilt not thou
Shield his gray head from danger now?
And didst thou not, in childhood’s morn,
That saw our young affection born,
Hang round his neck, and climb his knee,
Sharing his parent smile with me?
Kind, gentle Ulric! best beloved!
Now be thy faith in danger proved!
Though snares and terrors round him wait,
Thou wilt not leave him to his fate!
Turn not away in cold disdain!
—Shall thine own Ella plead in vain?
How art thou changed! and must I bear
That frown, that stern, averted air?
What mean they?”

“Maiden, need’st thou ask?
These features wear no specious mask.
Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye
With characters of mystery?
This—this is anguish! Can it be!
And plead’st thou for my sire to me?
Know, though thy prayers a death-pang give,
He must not meet my sight—and live!
Well may’st thou shudder! Of the band
Who watch in secret o’er the land,
Whose thousand swords ’tis vain to shun,
Th’ unknown, th’ unslumbering—I am one!
My arm defend him! What were then
Each vow that binds the souls of men,
Sworn on the cross, and deeply seal’d
By rites that may not be reveal’d?
—A breeze’s breath, an echo’s tone,
A passing sound, forgot when gone!
Nay, shrink not from me—I would fly,
That he by other hands may die!
What! think’st thou I would live to trace
Abhorrence in that angel face?
Beside thee should the lover stand,
The father’s life-blood on his brand?
No! I have bade my home adieu,
For other scenes mine eyes must view.
Look on me, love! Now all is known,
O Ella! must I fly alone?”

But she was changed. Scarce heaved breath;
She stood like one prepared for death,
And wept no more; then, casting down
From her fair brows the nuptial crown,
As joy’s last vision from her heart,
Cried, with sad firmness, “We must part!
’Tis past! These bridal flowers, so frail
They may not brook one stormy gale,
Survive—too dear as still thou art—
Each hope they imaged;—we must part!
One struggle yet—and all is o’er:
We love—and may we meet no more!
Oh! little know’st thou of the power
Affection lends in danger’s hour,
To deem that fate should thus divide
My footsteps from a father’s side!
Speed thou to other shores—I go
To share his wanderings and his woe.
Where’er his path of thorns may lead,
Whate’er his doom, by heaven decreed,
If there be guardian powers above
To nerve the heart of filial love,
If courage may be won by prayer,
Or strength by duty—I can bear!
Farewell!—though in that sound be years
Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears,
Though the soul vibrate to its knell
Of joys departed—yet, farewell!

Was this the maid who seem’d, erewhile,
Born but to meet life’s vernal smile?
A being, almost on the wing,
As an embodied breeze of spring?
A child of beauty and of bliss,
Sent from some purer sphere to this—
Not, in her exile, to sustain
The trial of one earthly pain;
But, as a sunbeam, on to move,
Wakening all hearts to joy and love?
That airy form, with footsteps free,
And radiant glance—could this be she?
From her fair cheek the rose was gone,
Her eye’s blue sparkle thence had flown;
Of all its vivid glow bereft,
Each playful charm her lip had left.
But what were these? on that young face,
Far nobler beauty fill’d their place!
’Twas not the pride that scorns to bend,
Though all the bolts of heaven descend;
Not the fierce grandeur of despair,
That half exults its fate to dare;
Nor that wild energy which leads
Th’ enthusiast to fanatic deeds:
Her mien, by sorrow unsubdued,
Was fix’d in silent fortitude;
Not in its haughty strength elate,
But calmly, mournfully sedate.
’Twas strange, yet lovely to behold
That spirit in so fair a mould,
As if a rose-tree’s tender form,
Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm.

One look she cast, where firmness strove
With the deep pangs of parting love;
One tear a moment in her eye
Dimm’d the pure light of constancy;
And pressing, as to still her heart,
She turn’d in silence to depart.
But Ulric, as to frenzy wrought,
Then started from his trance of thought:

“Stay thee! oh, stay!—It must not be—
All, all were well resign’d for thee!
Stay! till my soul each vow disown,
But those which make me thine alone!
If there be guilt—there is no shrine
More holy than that heart of thine:
There be my crime absolved—I take
The cup of shame for thy dear sake.
Of shame!—oh no! to virtue true,
Where thou art, there is glory too!
Go now! and to thy sire impart,
He hath a shield in Ulric’s heart,
And thou a home! Remain, or flee,
In life, in death—I follow thee!”

“There shall not rest one cloud of shame,
O Ulric! on thy lofty name;
There shall not one accusing word
Against thy spotless faith be heard!
Thy path is where the brave rush on,
Thy course must be where palms are won:
Where banners wave, and falchions glare,
Son of the mighty! be thou there!
Think on the glorious names that shine
Along thy sire’s majestic line;
Oh, last of that illustrious race!
Thou wert not born to meet disgrace!
Well, well I know each grief, each pain,
Thy spirit nobly could sustain;
E’en I unshrinking see them near,
And what hast thou to do with fear?
But when have warriors calmly borne
The cold and bitter smile of scorn?
’Tis not for thee! thy soul hath force
To cope with all things—but remorse;
And this my brightest thought shall be,
Thou hast not braved its pangs for me.
Go! break thou not one solemn vow;
Closed be the fearful conflict now;
Go! but forget not how my heart
Still at thy name will proudly start,
When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell,
Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well!”
—And thus they parted. Why recall
The scene of anguish known to all?
The burst of tears, the blush of pride,
That fain those fruitless tear’s would hide;
The lingering look, the last embrace,
Oh! what avails it to retrace?
They parted—in that bitter word
A thousand tones of grief are heard,
Whose deeply-seated echoes rest
In the fair cells of every breast.
Who hath not known, who shall not know,
That keen yet most familiar woe?
Where’er affection’s home is found,
It meets her on the holy ground;
The cloud of every summer hour,
The canker-worm of every flower.
“Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove,
That mortal agony of love?

The autumn moon slept bright and still
On fading wood and purple hill;
The vintager had hush’d his lay,
The fisher shunn’d the blaze of day,
And silence, o’er each green recess,
Brooded in misty sultriness.
But soon a low and measured sound
Broke on the deep repose around;
From Lindheim’s tower a glancing oar
Bade the stream ripple to the shore.
Sweet was that sound of waves which parted
The fond, the true, the noble-hearted;
And smoothly seem’d the bark to glide,
And brightly flow’d the reckless tide,
Though, mingling with its current, fell
The last warm tears of love’s farewell.

Part II.

Sweet is the gloom of forest shades,
Their pillar’d walks and dim arcades,
With all the thousand flowers that blow,
A waste of loveliness, below.
To him whose soul the world would fly,
For nature’s lonely majesty:
To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes,
To lover, lost in fairy dreams,
To hermit, whose prophetic thought
By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught,
And, in the visions of his rest,
Held bright communion with the blest:
’Tis sweet, but solemn! There alike
Silence and sound with awe can strike.
The deep Eolian murmur made
By sighing breeze and rustling shade,
And cavern’d fountain gushing nigh,
And wild-bee’s plaintive lullaby:
Or the dead stillness of the bowers,
When dark the summer-tempest lowers;
When silent nature seems to wait
The gathering thunder’s voice of fate;
When the aspen scarcely waves in air,
And the clouds collect for the lightning’s glare—
Each, each alike is awful there,
And thrills the soul with feelings high,
As some majestic harmony.

But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced
Each green retreat in breathless haste—
Young Ella—linger’d not to hear
The wood-notes, lost on mourner’s ear.
The shivering leaf, the breeze’s play,
The fountain’s gush, the wild-bird’s lay—
These charm not now; her sire she sought,
With trembling frame, with anxious thought,
And, starting if a forest deer
But moved the rustling branches near,
First felt that innocence may fear.

She reach’d a lone and shadowy dell,
Where the free sunbeam never fell;
’Twas twilight there at summer noon,
Deep night beneath the harvest moon,
And scarce might one bright star be seen
Gleaming the tangled boughs between;
For many a giant rock around
Dark in terrific grandeur frown’d,
And the ancient oaks, that waved on high,
Shut out each glimpse of the blessèd sky.
There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave,
Ne’er to heaven’s beam one sparkle gave,
And the wild flower, on its brink that grew,
Caught not from day one glowing hue.

’Twas said, some fearful deed untold
Had stain’d that scene in days of old;
Tradition o’er the haunt had thrown
A shade yet deeper than its own;
And still, amidst th’ umbrageous gloom,
Perchance above some victim’s tomb,
O’ergrown with ivy and with moss,
There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross,
Which, haply, silent record bore
Of guilt and penitence of yore.

Who by that holy sign was kneeling,
With brow unutter’d pangs revealing,
Hands clasp’d convulsively in prayer,
And lifted eyes and streaming hair,
And cheek, all pale as marble mould,
Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold?
Was it some image of despair
Still fix’d that stamp of woe to bear?
—Oh! ne’er could Art her forms have wrought
To speak such agonies of thought!
Those deathlike features gave to view
A mortal’s pangs too deep and true!
Starting he rose, with frenzied eye,
As Ella’s hurried step drew nigh;
He turn’d, with aspect darkly wild,
Trembling he stood—before his child!
On, with a burst of tears, she sprung,
And to her father’s bosom clung.

“Away! what seek’st thou here?” he cried,
“Art thou not now thine Ulric’s bride?
Hence, leave me—leave me to await,
In solitude, the storm of Fate;
Thou know’st not what my doom may be,
Ere evening comes in peace to thee.”

“My father! shall the joyous throng
Swell high for me the bridal song?
Shall the gay nuptial board be spread,
The festal garland bind my head,
And thou in grief, in peril, roam,
And make the wilderness thy home?
No! I am here with thee to share
All suffering mortal strength may bear;
And, oh! whate’er thy foes decree,
In life, in death, in chains, or free—
Well, well I feel, in thee secure;
Thy heart and hand alike are pure!”

Then was there meaning in his look,
Which deep that trusting spirit shook;
So wildly did each glance express
The strife of shame and bitterness,—
As thus he spoke: “Fond dreams, oh hence!
Is this the mien of Innocence?
This furrow’d brow, this restless eye—
Read thou this fearful tale, and fly!
Is it enough? or must I seek
For words, the tale of guilt to speak?
Then be it so—I will not doom
Thy youth to wither in its bloom;
I will not see thy tender frame
Bow’d to the earth with fear and shame.
No! though I teach thee to abhor
The sire so fondly loved before;
Though the dread effort rend my breast,
Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest!
Oh! bitter penance! thou wilt turn
Away in horror and in scorn;
Thy looks, that still through all the past
Affection’s gentlest beams have cast,
As lightning on my heart will fall,
And I must mark and bear it all!
Yet though of life’s best ties bereaved,
Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived!

“I linger—let me speed the tale
Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail.
Why should I falter thus to tell
What heaven so long hath known too well?
Yes! though from mortal sight conceal’d,
There hath a brother’s blood appeal’d!
He died—’twas not where banners wave,
And war-steeds trample on the brave;
He died—it was in Holy Land—
Yet fell he not by Paynim hand;
He sleeps not with his sires at rest,
With trophied shield and knightly crest;
Unknown his grave to kindred eyes,
—But I can tell thee where he lies!
It was a wild and savage spot,
But once beheld—and ne’er forgot!
I see it now—that haunted scene
My spirit’s dwelling still hath been;
And he is there—I see him laid
Beneath that palm-tree’s lonely shade.
The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh
Bears witness with its crimson dye!
I see th’ accusing glance he raised,
Ere that dim eye by death was glazed;
—Ne’er will that parting look forgive!
I still behold it—and I live!
I live! from hope, from mercy driven,
A mark for all the shafts of heaven!

“Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won
My birth-right; and my child, my son,
Heir to high name, high fortune born,
Was doom’d to penury and scorn,
An alien midst his fathers’ halls,
An exile from his native walls.
Could I bear this? The rankling thought,
Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought;
Some serpent, kindling hate and guile,
Lurk’d in my infant’s rosy smile,
And when his accents lisp’d my name,
They woke my inmost heart to flame!
I struggled—are there evil powers
That claim their own ascendant hours?
—Oh! what should thine unspotted soul
Or know or fear of their control?
Why on the fearful conflict dwell?
Vainly I struggled, and I fell—
Cast down from every hope of bliss—
Too well thou know’st to what abyss!

“’Twas done!—that moment hurried by
To darken all eternity.
Years roll’d away, long evil years,
Of woes, of fetters, and of fears;
Nor aught but vain remorse I gain’d
By the deep guilt my soul which stain’d.
For, long a captive in the lands
Where Arabs tread their burning sands,
The haunted midnight of the mind
Was round me while in chains I pined,
By all forgotten, save by one
Dread presence—which I could not shun.
—How oft, when o’er the silent waste
Nor path nor landmark might be traced,
When slumbering by the watch-fire’s ray,
The Wanderers of the Desert lay,
And stars, as o’er an ocean shone,
Vigil I kept—but not alone!
That form, that image, from the dead,
Still walk’d the wild with soundless tread!
I’ve seen it in the fiery blast,
I’ve seen it where the sand-storms pass’d;
Beside the Desert’s fount it stood,
Tinging the clear cold wave with blood;
And e’en when viewless, by the fear
Curdling my veins, I knew ’twas near!
—Was near!—I feel th’ unearthly thrill,
Its power is on my spirit still!
A mystic influence, undefined,
The spell, the shadow of my mind!

“Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on;
One last farewell, and then begone!
Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow,
And let me read thine aspect now!
No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed
Heaven’s justice to my crime decreed.
Slow came the day that broke my chain,
But I at length was free again;
And freedom brings a burst of joy,
E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy.
I thought upon my own fair towers,
My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers,
And in a father’s visions, press’d
Thee and thy brother to my breast.
—’Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet
Recall the moment when we met?
Thy step to greet me lightly sprung,
Thy arms around me fondly clung;
Scarce aught than infant seraph less
Seem’d thy pure childhood’s loveliness.
But he was gone—that son for whom
I rush’d on guilt’s eternal doom;
He for whose sake alone were given
My peace on earth, my hope in heaven—
He met me not. A ruthless band,
Whose name with terror fill’d the land,
Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild
Had reft the father of his child.
Foes to my race, the hate they nursed,
Full on that cherish’d scion burst.
Unknown his fate.—No parent nigh,
My boy! my first-born! didst thou die?
Or did they spare thee for a life
Of shame, of rapine, and of strife?
Livest thou, unfriended, unallied,
A wanderer lost, without a guide?
Oh! to thy fate’s mysterious gloom
Blest were the darkness of the tomb!

“Ella! ’tis done—my guilty heart
Before thee all unveil’d—depart!
Few pangs ’twill cost thee now to fly
From one so stain’d, so lost as I;
Yet peace to thine untainted breast,
E’en though it hate me!—be thou blest!
Farewell! thou shalt not linger here—
E’en now th’ avenger may be near:
Where’er I turn, the foe, the snare,
The dagger, may be ambush’d there;
One hour—and haply all is o’er,
And we must meet on earth no more.
No, nor beyond!—to those pure skies
Where thou shalt be, I may not rise;
Heaven’s will for ever parts our lot,
Yet, oh! my child! abhor me not!
Speak once! to soothe this broken heart,
Speak to me once! and then depart!”

But still—as if each pulse were dead,
Mute—as the power of speech were fled,
Pale—as if life-blood ceased to warm
The marble beauty of her form;
On the dark rock she lean’d her head,
That seem’d as there ’twere riveted,
And dropt the hands, till then which press’d
Her burning brow, or throbbing breast.
There beam’d no tear-drop in her eye,
And from her lip there breathed no sigh,
And on her brow no trace there dwelt
That told she suffer’d or she felt.
All that once glow’d, or smiled, or beam’d,
Now fix’d, and quench’d, and frozen seem’d;
And long her sire, in wild dismay,
Deem’d her pure spirit pass’d away.

But life return’d. O’er that cold frame
One deep convulsive shudder came;
And a faint light her eye relumed,
And sad resolve her mien assumed.
But there was horror in the gaze,
Which yet to his she dared not raise;
And her sad accents, wild and low,
As rising from a depth of woe,
At first with hurried trembling broke,
But gather’d firmness as she spoke.
—“I leave thee not—whate’er betide,
My footsteps shall not quit thy side;
Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill,
But yet thou art my father still!
And, oh! if stain’d by guilty deed,
For some kind spirit, tenfold need,
To speak of heaven’s absolving love,
And waft desponding thought above.
Is there not power in mercy’s wave
The blood-stain from thy soul to lave?
Is there not balm to heal despair,
In tears, in penitence, in prayer?
My father! kneel at His pure shrine
Who died to expiate guilt like thine,
Weep—and my tears with thine shall blend,
Pray—while my prayers with thine ascend,
And, as our mingling sorrows rise,
Heaven will relent, though earth despise!”

“My child, my child! these bursting tears,
The first mine eyes have shed for years,
Though deepest conflicts they express,
Yet flow not all in bitterness!
Oh! thou hast bid a wither’d heart
From desolation’s slumber start;
Thy voice of pity and of love
Seems o’er its icy depths to move
E’en as a breeze of health, which brings
Life, hope, and healing, on its wings.
And there is mercy yet! I feel
Its influence o’er my spirit steal;
How welcome were each pang below,
If guilt might be atoned by woe!
Think’st thou I yet may be forgiven?
Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven?
Oh! if it yet avail to plead,
If judgment be not yet decreed,
Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry,
Till pardon shall be seal’d on high!
Yet, yet I shrink!—Will Mercy shed
Her dews upon this fallen head?
—Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free
Descend forgiveness, won by thee!”

They knelt—before the Cross, that sign
Of love eternal and divine;
That symbol, which so long hath stood
A rock of strength, on time’s dark flood,
Clasp’d by despairing hands, and laved
By the warm tears of nations saved.
In one deep prayer their spirits blent,
The guilty and the innocent;
Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth,
Age, soil’d with every stain of earth,
Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry,
One sacrifice of agony.
—Oh! blest, though bitter be their source—
Though dark the fountain of remorse,
Blest are the tears which pour from thence,
Th’ atoning stream of penitence!
And let not pity check the tide
By which the heart is purified;
Let not vain comfort turn its course,
Or timid love repress its force!
Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand,
To bear luxuriance o’er the land;
Forbid the life-restoring rains
To fall on Afric’s burning plains;
Close up the fount that gush’d to cheer
The pilgrim o’er the waste who trode;
But check thou not one holy tear
Which Penitence devotes to God!

Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne’er
Was roused by huntsman’s bugle there—
So rude, that scarce might human eye
Sustain their dread sublimity—
So awful, that the timid swain,
Nurtured amidst their dark domain,
Had peopled with unearthly forms
Their mists, their forests, and their storms,—
She, whose blue eye of laughing light
Once made each festal scene more bright;
Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest,
Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest,
By torrent wave and mountain brow,
Is wandering as an outcast now,
To share with Lindheim’s fallen chief
His shame, his terror, and his grief.

Hast thou not mark’d the ruin’s flower,
That blooms in solitary grace,
And, faithful to its mouldering tower,
Waves in the banner’s place?
From those gray haunts renown hath pass’d,
Time wins his heritage at last;
The day of glory hath gone by,
With all its pomp and minstrelsy:
Yet still the flower of golden hues
There loves its fragrance to diffuse,
To fallen and forsaken things
With constancy unalter’d clings,
And, smiling o’er the wreck of state,
With beauty clothes the desolate.
—E’en such was she, the fair-hair’d maid,
In all her light of youth array’d,
Forsaking every joy below
To soothe a guilty parent’s woe,
And clinging thus, in beauty’s prime,
To the dark ruin made by crime.
Oh! ne’er did heaven’s propitious eyes
Smile on a purer sacrifice;
Ne’er did young love, at duty’s shrine,
More nobly brighter hopes resign!
O’er her own pangs she brooded not,
Nor sank beneath her bitter lot;
No! that pure spirit’s lofty worth
Still rose more buoyantly from earth,
And drew from an eternal source
Its gentle, yet triumphant force:
Roused by affliction’s chastening might
To energies more calmly bright,
Like the wild harp of airy sigh,
Woke by the storm to harmony!
He that in mountain-holds hath sought
A refuge for unconquer’d thought,
A charter’d home, where Freedom’s child
Might rear her altars in the wild,
And fix her quenchless torch on high,
A beacon for Eternity;
Or they, whose martyr spirits wage
Proud war with Persecution’s rage,
And to the deserts bear the faith
That bids them smile on chains and death;
Well may they draw, from all around,
Of grandeur clothed in form and sound,
From the deep power of earth and sky,
Wild nature’s might of majesty,
Strong energies, immortal fires,
High hopes, magnificent desires!

But dark, terrific, and austere,
To him doth nature’s mien appear,
Who midst her wilds would seek repose
From guilty pangs and vengeful foes!
For him the wind hath music dread,
A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead;
The forest’s whisper breathes a tone
Appalling, as from worlds unknown;
The mystic gloom of wood and cave
Is fill’d with shadow’s of the grave;
In noon’s deep calm the sunbeams dart
A blaze that seems to search his heart;
The pure, eternal stars of night
Upbraid him with their silent light;
And the dread spirit, which pervades
And hallows earth’s most lonely shades,
In every scene, in every hour,
Surrounds him with chastising power—
With nameless fear his soul to thrill,
Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still!

’Twas the chilly close of an autumn day,
And the leaves fell thick o’er the wanderers’ way;
The rustling pines, with a hollow sound,
Foretold the tempest gathering round;
And the skirts of the western clouds were spread
With a tinge of wild and stormy red,
That seem’d, through the twilight forest bowers
Like the glare of a city’s blazing towers.
But they, who far from cities fled,
And shrunk from the print of human tread,
Had reach’d a desert scene unknown,
So strangely wild, so deeply lone,
That a nameless feeling, unconfess’d
And undefined, their souls oppress’d.
Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl’d,
Lay like the ruins of a world,
Left by an earthquake’s final throes
In deep and desolate repose—
Things of eternity whose forms
Bore record of ten thousand storms!
While, rearing its colossal crest
In sullen grandeur o’er the rest,
One, like a pillar, vast and rude,
Stood monarch of the solitude.
Perchance by Roman conqueror’s hand
Th’ enduring monument was plann’d;
Or Odin’s sons, in days gone by,
Had shaped its rough immensity,
To rear, midst mountain, rock, and wood,
A temple meet for rites of blood.
But they were gone, who might have told
That secret of the times of old;
And there, in silent scorn it frown’d,
O’er all its vast coevals round.
Darkly those giant masses lower’d,
Countless and motionless they tower’d;
No wild-flower o’er their summits hung,
No fountain from their caverns sprung;
Yet ever on the wanderers’ ear
Murmur’d a sound of waters near,
With music deep of lulling falls,
And louder gush, at intervals.
Unknown its source—nor spring nor stream
Caught the red sunset’s lingering gleam,
But ceaseless, from its hidden caves,
Arose that mystic voice of waves.
Yet bosom’d midst that savage scene,
One chosen spot of gentler mien
Gave promise to the pilgrim’s eye
Of shelter from the tempest nigh.
Glad sight! the ivied cross it bore,
The sculptured saint that crown’d its door:
Less welcome now were monarch’s dome,
Than that low cell, some hermit’s home.
Thither the outcasts bent their way,
By the last lingering gleam of day;
When from a cavern’d rock, which cast
Deep shadows o’er them as they pass’d,
A form, a warrior form of might,
As from earth’s bosom, sprang to sight.
His port was lofty—yet the heart
Shrunk from him with recoiling start;
His mien was youthful—yet his face
Had nought of youth’s ingenuous grace;
Nor chivalrous nor tender thought
Its traces on his brow had wrought
Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye,
But calm and cold severity,
A spirit haughtily austere,
Stranger to pity as to fear.
It seem’d as pride had thrown a veil
O’er that dark brow and visage pale,
Leaving the searcher nought to guess,
All was so fix’d and passionless.

He spoke—and they who heard the tone
Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown.
“I’ve sought thee far in forest bowers,
I’ve sought thee long in peopled towers,
I’ve borne th’ dagger of th’ Unknown
Through scenes explored by me alone;
My search is closed—nor toils nor fears
Repel the servant of the Seers;
We meet—’tis vain to strive or fly:
Albert of Lindheim, thou must die!”

Then with clasp’d hands the fair-hair’d maid
Sank at his feet, and wildly pray’d:—
“Stay, stay thee! sheath that lifted steel!
Oh! thou art human, and canst feel!
Hear me! if e’er ’twas thine to prove
The blessing of a parent’s love;
By thine own father’s hoary hair,
By her who gave thee being, spare!
Did they not, o’er thy infant years,
Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears!
Young warrior! thou wilt heed my prayers,
As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs!”

But cold th’ Avenger’s look remain’d,
His brow its rigid calm maintain’d:
“Maiden! ’tis vain—my bosom ne’er
Was conscious of a parent’s care;
The nurture of my infant years
Froze in my soul the source of tears;
’Tis not for me to pause or melt,
Or feel as happier hearts have felt.
Away! the hour of fate goes by:
Thy prayers are fruitless—he must die!”

“Rise, Ella! rise!” with steadfast brow
The father spoke—unshrinking now,
As if from heaven a martyr’s strength
Had settled on his soul at length:
“Kneel thou no more, my noble child,
Thou by no taint of guilt defiled;
Kneel not to man!—for mortal prayer,
Oh! when did mortal vengeance spare?
Since hope of earthly aid is flown,
Lift thy pure hands to heaven alone,
And know, to calm thy suffering heart,
My spirit is resign’d to part.
Trusting in Him who reads and knows
This guilty breast, with all its woes.
Rise! I would bless thee once again,
Be still, be firm—for all is vain!”

And she was still. She heard him not—
Her prayers were hush’d, her pangs forgot;
All thought, all memory pass’d away,
Silent and motionless she lay,
In a brief death, a blest suspense
Alike of agony and sense.
She saw not when the dagger gleam’d
In the last red light from the west that stream’d;
She mark’d not when the life-blood’s flow
Came rushing to the mortal blow;
While, unresisting, sank her sire,
Yet gather’d firmness to expire,
Mingling a warrior’s courage high
With a penitent’s humility.
And o’er him there th’ Avenger stood,
And watch’d the victim’s ebbing blood,
Still calm, as if his faithful hand
Had but obey’d some just command,
Some power whose stern, yet righteous will
He deem’d it virtue to fulfil,
And triumph’d, when the palm was won,
For duty’s task austerely done.

But a feeling dread and undefined,
A mystic presage of the mind,
With strange and sudden impulse ran
Chill through the heart of the dying man;
And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom breath,
And it seem’d as fear suspended death,
And nature from her terrors drew
Fresh energy and vigour new.

“Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne’er
Was conscious of a parent’s care;
Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood’s years,
Froze in thy soul the source of tears:
The time will come, when thou, with me,
The judgment throne of God wilt see—
Oh! by thy hopes of mercy, then,
By His blest love who died for men,
By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow,
Avenger! I adjure thee now!
To him who bleeds beneath thy steel,
Thy lineage and thy name reveal.
And haste thee! for his closing ear
Hath little more on earth to hear—
Haste! for the spirit, almost flown,
Is lingering for thy words alone.”

Then first a shade, resembling fear,
Pass’d o’er th’ Avenger’s mien austere;
A nameless awe his features cross’d,
Soon in their haughty coldness lost.

“What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild,
And bid them tell thee of their child!
Ask the rude winds, and angry skies,
Whose tempests were his lullabies!
His chambers were the cave and wood,
His fosterers men of wrath and blood;
Outcasts alike of earth and heaven,
By wrongs to desperation driven!
Who, in their pupil, now could trace
The features of a nobler race?
Yet such was mine!—if one who cast
A look of anguish o’er the past,
Bore faithful record on the day
When penitent in death he lay.
But still deep shades my prospects veil;
He died—and told but half the tale.
With him it sleeps—I only know
Enough for stern and silent woe,
For vain ambition’s deep regret,
For hopes deceived, deceiving yet,
For dreams of pride, that vainly tell
How high a lot had suited well
The heir of some illustrious line,
Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!”

Then swift through Albert’s bosom pass’d
One pang, the keenest and the last,
Ere with his spirit fled the fears,
The sorrows, and the pangs of years;
And, while his gray hairs swept the dust,
Faltering he murmur’d, “Heaven is just!
For thee that deed of guilt was done,
By thee avenged, my son! my son!”
—The day was closed—the moonbeam shed
Light on the living and the dead,
And as through rolling clouds it broke,
Young Ella from her trance awoke—
Awoke to bear, to feel, to know
E’en more than all an orphan’s woe.
Oh! ne’er did moonbeam’s light serene
With beauty clothe a sadder scene!
There, cold in death, the father slept—
There, pale in woe, the daughter wept!
Yes! she might weep—but one stood nigh,
With horror in his tearless eye,
That eye which ne’er again shall close
In the deep quiet of repose;
No more on earth beholding aught
Save one dread vision, stamp’d on thought.
But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid
His deeper woe had scarce survey’d,
Till his wild voice reveal’d a tale
Which seem’d to bid the heavens turn pale!
He call’d her, “Sister!” and the word
In anguish breathed, in terror heard,
Reveal’d enough: all else were weak—
That sound a thousand pangs could speak.
He knelt beside that breathless clay,
Which, fix’d in utter stillness, lay—
Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace,
Each line of that unconscious face;
Knelt, till his eye could bear no more
Those marble features to explore;
Then, starting, turning, as to shun
The image thus by Memory won,
A wild farewell to her he bade,
Who by the dead in silence pray’d;
And, frenzied by his bitter doom,
Fled thence—to find all earth a tomb!

Days pass’d away—and Rhine’s fair shore
In the light of summer smiled once more;
The vines were purpling on the hill,
And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still.
There came a bark up the noble stream,
With pennons that shed a golden gleam,
With the flash of arms, and the voice of song,
Gliding triumphantly along;
For warrior-forms were glittering there,
Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air;
And as the tones of oar and wave
Their measured cadence mingling gave,
’Twas thus th’ exulting chorus rose,
While many an echo swell’d the close:—

“From the fields where dead and dying
On their battle-bier are lying,
Where the blood unstanch’d is gushing,
Where the steed uncheck’d is rushing,
Trampling o’er the noble-hearted,
Ere the spirit yet be parted;
Where each breath of heaven is swaying
Knightly plumes and banners playing,
And the clarion’s music swelling
Calls the vulture from his dwelling;
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line,
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!
To his own fair woods, enclosing
Vales in sunny peace reposing,
Where his native stream is laving
Banks, with golden harvests waving,
And the summer light is sleeping
On the grape, through tendrils peeping;
To the halls where harps are ringing,
Bards the praise of warriors singing,
Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly,
Joyous voices mingling sweetly;
Where the cheek of mirth is glowing,
And the wine-cup brightly flowing,
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line,
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!”

He came—he sought his Ella’s bowers,
He traversed Lindheim’s lonely towers;
But voice and footstep thence had fled,
As from the dwellings of the dead,
And the sounds of human joy and woe
Gave place to the moan of the wave below.
The banner still the rampart crown’d,
But the tall rank grass waved thick around
Still hung the arms of a race gone by
In the blazon’d halls of their ancestry,
But they caught no more, at fall of night,
The wavering flash of the torch’s light,
And they sent their echoes forth no more
To the Minnesinger’s tuneful lore,
For the hands that touch’d the harp were gone,
And the hearts were cold that loved its tone;
And the soul of the chord lay mute and still,
Save when the wild wind bade it thrill,
And woke from its depths a dream-like moan,
For life, and power, and beauty gone.

The warrior turn’d from that silent scene,
Where a voice of woe had welcome been;
And his heart was heavy with boding thought,
As the forest-paths alone he sought.
He reach’d a convent’s fane, that stood
Deep bosom’d in luxuriant wood;
Still, solemn, fair—it seem’d a spot
Where earthly care might be all forgot,
And sounds and dreams of heaven alone
To musing spirit might be known.

And sweet e’en then were the sounds that rose
On the holy and profound repose.
Oh! they came o’er the warrior’s breast
Like a glorious anthem of the blest;
And fear and sorrow died away
Before the full majestic lay.
He enter’d the secluded fane,
Which sent forth that inspiring strain;
He gazed—the hallow’d pile’s array
Was that of some high festal day;
Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound,
Flowers of all scents were strew’d around;
The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh,
Blest on the altar to smile and die;
And a fragrant cloud from the censer’s breath
Half hid the sacred pomp beneath;
And still the peal of choral song
Swell’d the resounding aisles along;
Wakening, in its triumphant flow,
Deep echoes from the graves below.

Why, from its woodland birthplace torn,
Doth summer’s rose that scene adorn?
Why breathes the incense to the sky?
Why swells th’ exulting harmony?
—And see’st thou not yon form, so light
It seems half floating on the sight,
As if the whisper of a gale,
That did but wave its snowy veil,
Might bear it from the earth afar,
A lovely but receding star?
Know that devotion’s shrine e’en now
Receives that youthful vestal’s vow—
For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise,
A jubilee of sacrifice!
Mark yet a moment! from her brow
Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow,
Ere yet a darker mantle hide
The charms to heaven thus sanctified:
Stay thee! and catch their parting gleam,
That ne’er shall fade from memory’s dream.
A moment! oh! to Ulric’s soul,
Poised between hope and fear’s control,
What slow, unmeasured hours went by,
Ere yet suspense grew certainty.
It came at length. Once more that face
Reveal’d to man its mournful grace;
A sunbeam on its features fell,
As if to bear the world’s farewell;
And doubt was o’er. His heart grew chill:
’Twas she—though changed—’twas Ella still!
Though now her once-rejoicing mien
Was deeply, mournfully serene;
Though clouds her eye’s blue lustre shaded,
And the young cheek beneath had faded,
Well, well he knew the form, which cast
Light on his soul through all the past!
’Twas with him on the battle-plain,
’Twas with him on the stormy main:
’Twas in his visions, when the shield
Pillow’d his head on tented field;
’Twas a bright beam that led him on
Where’er a triumph might be won—
In danger as in glory nigh,
An angel-guide to victory!

She caught his pale bewilder’d gaze
Of grief half lost in fix’d amaze.
Was it some vain illusion, wrought
By frenzy of impassion’d thought?
Some phantom, such as Grief hath power
To summon in her wandering hour?
No! it was he! the lost, the mourn’d—
Too deeply loved, too late return’d!
—A fever’d blush, a sudden start,
Spoke the last weakness of her heart;
’Twas vanquish’d soon—the hectic red
A moment flush’d her check, and fled.
Once more serene—her steadfast eye
Look’d up as to Eternity;
Then gazed on Ulric with an air,
That said—the home of Love is there!

Yes! there alone it smiled for him,
Whose eye before that look grew dim.
Not long ’twas his e’en thus to view
The beauty of its calm adieu;
Soon o’er those features, brightly pale,
Was cast th’ impenetrable veil;
And, if one human sigh were given
By the pure bosom vow’d to heaven,
’Twas lost, as many a murmur’d sound
Of grief, “not loud, but deep,” is drown’d,
In hymns of joy, which proudly rise
To tell the calm untroubled skies
That earth hath banish’d care and woe,
And man holds festivals below!

The Caravan in the Deserts.

Call it not loneliness to dwell
In woodland shade or hermit dell,
Or the deep forest to explore,
Or wander Alpine regions o’er;
For nature there all joyous reigns,
And fills with life her wild domains:—
A bird’s light wing may break the air,
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there;
A bee the mountain flowers may seek,
A chamois bound from peak to peak;
An eagle, rushing to the sky,
Wake the deep echoes with his cry;
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer,
Some voice though not of man is near.
But he, whose weary step hath traced
Mysterious Afric’s awful waste—
Whose eye Arabia’s wilds hath view’d,
Can tell thee what is solitude!
It is to traverse lifeless plains,
Where everlasting stillness reigns,
And billowy sands and dazzling sky
Seem boundless as infinity!
It is to sink, with speechless dread,
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread,
Sever’d from earthly being’s trace,
Alone amidst eternal space!

’Tis noon—and fearfully profound,
Silence is on the desert round;
Alone she reigns, above, beneath,
With all the attributes of death!
No bird the blazing heaven may dare,
No insect bide the scorching air;
The ostrich, though of sunborn race,
Seeks a more shelter’d dwelling-place;
The lion slumbers in his lair,
The serpent shuns the noontide glare.
But slowly wind the patient train
Of camels o’er the blasted plain,
Where they and man may brave alone
The terrors of the burning zone.
—Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high,
As a volcano, flame the sky;
Shrink not, though as a furnace glow
The dark-red seas of sand below;
Though not a shadow, save your own,
Across the dread expanse is thrown.
Mark! where your feverish lips to lave,
Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave!
Urge your tired camels on, and take
Your rest beside yon glistening lake;
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring,
And fan your brows with lighter wing.
Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide,
Reflects the date-tree on its side—
Speed on! pure draughts and genial air,
And verdant shade, await you there.
Oh, glimpse of heaven! to him unknown
That hath not trod the burning zone!
Forward they press—they gaze dismay’d—
The waters of the desert fade!
Melting to vapours that elude
The eye, the lip, they vainly woo’d.

What meteor comes? A purple haze
Hath half obscured the noontide rays:
Onward it moves in swift career,
A blush upon the atmosphere.
Haste, haste! avert th’ impending doom,
Fall prostrate! ’tis the dread Simoom!
Bow down your faces—till the blast
On its red wing of flame hath pass’d,
Far bearing o’er the sandy wave
The viewless Angel of the Grave.

It came—’tis vanish’d—but hath left
The wanderers e’en of hope bereft;
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame,
Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame.
Faint with despondence, worn with toil,
They sink upon the burning soil,
Resign’d, amidst those realms of gloom,
To find their deathbed and their tomb.

But onward still!—yon distant spot
Of verdure can deceive you not;
Yon palms, which tremulously seem’d
Reflected as the waters gleam’d,
Along th’ horizon’s verge display’d,
Still rear their slender colonnade—
A landmark, guiding o’er the plain
The Caravan’s exhausted train.
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss
The desert’s emerald oasis!
A rainbow on the torrent’s wave,
A gem embosom’d in the grave,
A sunbeam on a stormy day
Its beauty’s image might convey!
Beauty, in horror’s lap that sleeps,
While silence round her vigil keeps.

Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid
To slumber in th’ acacia shade:
Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise
Their aromatic breath diffuse;
Where softer light the sunbeams pour
Through the tall palm and sycamore;
And the rich date luxuriant spreads
Its pendant clusters o’er your heads.
Nature once more, to seal your eyes,
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies;
Again each heart the music hails
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales:
And oh! to Afric’s child how dear
The voice of fountains gushing near!
Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams
Of waving groves and rippling streams!
Far be the serpent’s venom’d coil
From the brief respite won by toil;
Far be the awful shades of those
Who deep beneath the sands repose—
The hosts, to whom the desert’s breath
Bore swift and stern the call of death.
Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade
The freshness of the acacia shade,
But gales of heaven your spirits bless,
With life’s best balm—Forgetfulness!
Till night from many an urn diffuse
The treasures of her world of dews.

The day hath closed—the moon on high
Walks in her cloudless majesty.
A thousand stars to Afric’s heaven
Serene magnificence have given—
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame
Shines forth eternally the same.
Blest be their beams, whose holy light
Shall guide the camel’s footsteps right,
And lead, as with a track divine,
The pilgrim to his prophet’s shrine!
—Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu!
Again your lonely march pursue,
While airs of night are freshly blowing,
And heavens with softer beauty glowing.

’Tis silence all: the solemn scene
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien;
For giant-rocks, at distance piled,
Cast their deep shadows o’er the wild.
Darkly they rise—what eye hath view’d
The caverns of their solitude?
Away! within those awful cells
The savage lord of Afric dwells!
Heard ye his voice?—the lion’s roar
Swells as when billows break on shore.
Well may the camel shake with fear,
And the steed pant—his foe is near.
Haste! light the torch, bid watchfires throw
Far o’er the waste, a ruddy glow;
Keep vigil—guard the bright array
Of flames that scare him from his prey;
Within their magic circle press,
O wanderers of the wilderness!
Heap high the pile, and by its blaze,
Tell the wild tales of elder days,—
Arabia’s wond’rous lore, that dwells
On warrior deeds and wizard spells;
Enchanted domes, mid scenes like these,
Rising to vanish with the breeze;
Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed
Their light where mortal may not tread;
And spirits, o’er whose pearly halls
Th’ eternal billow heaves and falls.
—With charms like these, of mystic power,
Watchers! beguile the midnight hour.

Slowly that hour hath roll’d away,
And star by star withdraws its ray.
Dark children of the sun! again
Your own rich orient hails his reign.
He comes, but veil’d—with sanguine glare
Tinging the mists that load the air;
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame,
Th’ approaching hurricane proclaim.
’Tis death’s red banner streams on high—
Fly to the rocks for shelter!—fly!
Lo! dark’ning o’er the fiery skies,
The pillars of the desert rise!
On, in terrific grandeur wheeling,
A giant-host, the heavens concealing,
They move, like mighty genii-forms,
Towering immense midst clouds and storms.
Who shall escape!—with awful force
The whirlwind bears them on their course;
They join, they rush resistless on—
The landmarks of the plain are gone;
The steps, the forms, from earth effaced,
Of those who trod the burning waste!
All whelm’d, all hush’d!—none left to bear
Sad record how they perish’d there!
No stone their tale of death shall tell—
The desert guards its mysteries well;
And o’er th’ unfathom’d sandy deep,
Where low their nameless relics sleep,
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread,
Nor know his steps are on the dead.

Marius Amongst the Ruins of Carthage.

[“Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him:—“Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate’s decree, and treat you as a public enemy.” Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length the officer inquired what answer he should carry to the governor. “Go and tell him,” said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, “that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage.”—Plutarch.]

’Twas noon, and Afric’s dazzling sun on high
With fierce resplendence fill’d th’ unclouded sky;
No zephyr waved the palm’s majestic head,
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread;
While desolate, beneath a blaze of light,
Silent and lonely, as at dead of night,
The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes
Had strew’d their precious marble o’er the plains;
Dark weeds and grass the column had o’ergrown,
The lizard bask’d upon the altar stone;
Whelm’d by the ruins of their own abodes,
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods;
While near—dread offspring of the burning day!
Coil’d midst forsaken halls the serpent lay.

There came an exile, long by fate pursued,
To shelter in that awful solitude.
Well did that wanderer’s high yet faded mien
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene:—
Shadow’d, not veil’d, by locks of wintry snow,
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow’d brow;
Time had not quench’d the terrors of his eye,
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency;
While the deep meaning of his features told
Ages of thought had o’er his spirit roll’d,
Nor dimm’d the fire that might not be controll’d;
And still did power invest his stately form,
Shatter’d, but yet unconquer’d, by the storm.
—But slow his step—and where, not yet o’erthrown,
Still tower’d a pillar midst the waste alone,
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary shade.
He slept—and darkly, on his brief repose,
Th’ indignant genius of the scene arose.
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head,
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain,
The kingly shadow seem’d to lift his chain,
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn,
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!

“And sleep’st thou, Roman?” cried his voice austere;
“Shall son of Latium find a refuge here?
Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate,
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate!
Go! with her children’s flower, the free, the brave,
People the silent chambers of the grave:
So shall the course of ages yet to be,
More swiftly waft the day, avenging me!

“Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come,
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom;
I see the trophies of her pride decay,
And her long line of triumphs pass away,
Lost in the depths of time—while sinks the star
That led her march of heroes from afar!
Lo! from the frozen forests of the North,
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth!
Who shall awake the mighty?—will thy woe,
City of thrones! disturb the realms below?
Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries
Summon their shadowy legions to arise,
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls!
—Barbarians revel in their ancient halls,
And their lost children bend the subject knee,
Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free.
Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high,
A creature of the empyreal—thou, whose eye
Was lightning to the earth—whose pinion waved
In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved;
Sink from thy heavens! for glory’s noon is o’er,
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more!
Closed is thy regal course—thy crest is torn,
And thy plume banish’d from the realms of morn.
The shaft hath reach’d thee!—rest with chiefs and kings,
Who conquer’d in the shadow of thy wings;
Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey,
And share thy glorious heritage of day!
But darker years shall mingle with the past,
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last.
O’er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And Empire’s widow veils with dust her head.
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine:
Midst fallen palaces she sits alone,
Calling heroic shades from ages gone,
Or bids the nations midst her deserts wait
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate!

“Still sleep’st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise!
Wake to obey th’ avenging Destinies!
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country’s blood
Shall swell and darken Tiber’s yellow flood!
My children’s manès call—awake! prepare
The feast they claim!—exult in Rome’s despair!
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries,
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies;
Let carnage revel e’en her shrines among,
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young!
Haste! o’er her hills the sword’s libation shed,
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!”

The vision flies—a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer’s ear;
He starts, he wakes to woe—before him stands
Th’ unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief
To seek on other shores a home for grief.
—Silent the wanderer sat—but on his cheek
The burning glow far more than words might speak;
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke
Language where all th’ indignant soul awoke,
Till his deep thought found voice: then, calmly stern,
And sovereign in despair, he cried, “Return!
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen
Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath been!”

A Tale of the Fourteenth Century.

A Fragment.

The moonbeam, quivering o’er the wave,
Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill,
The wild wind slumbers in its cave,
And heaven is cloudless—earth is still!
The pile that crowns yon savage height
With battlements of Gothic might,
Rises in softer pomp array’d,
Its massy towers half lost in shade,
Half touch’d with mellowing light!
The rays of night, the tints of time,
Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone,
O’er its rude strength and mien sublime,
A placid smile have thrown.
And far beyond, where wild and high,
Bounding the pale blue summer sky,
A mountain vista meets the eye,
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume
A pencil’d shade, a softer gloom:
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light,
Its torrents glitter through the night,
While every cave and deep recess
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness.
Scarce moving on the glassy deep
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep;
But darting from its side,
How swiftly does its boat design
A slender, silvery, waving line
Of radiance o’er the tide!
No sound is on the summer seas,
But the low dashing of the oar,
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze
Through woods that fringe the rocky shore.
That boat has reach’d the silent bay—
The dashing oar has ceased to play;
The breeze has murmur’d and has died
In forest shades, on ocean’s tide.
No step, no tone, no breath of sound
Disturbs the loneliness profound;
And midnight spreads o’er earth and main
A calm so holy and so deep,
That voice of mortal were profane
To break on nature’s sleep!
It is the hour for thought to soar
High o’er the cloud of earthly woes;
For rapt devotion to adore—
For passion to repose;
And virtue to forget her tears,
In visions of sublimer spheres!
For oh! those transient gleams of heaven,
To calmer, purer spirits given,
Children of hallow’d peace, are known
In solitude and shade alone!
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon,
To blow beneath the midnight moon,
The garish world they will not bless,
But only live in loneliness!

Hark! did some note of plaintive swell
Melt on the stillness of the air?
Or was it fancy’s powerful spell
That woke such sweetness there?
For wild and distant it arose,
Like sounds that bless the bard’s repose,
When in lone wood, or mossy cave,
He dreams beside some fountain wave,
And fairy worlds delight the eyes
Wearied with life’s realities.

Was it illusion? Yet again
Rises and falls th’ enchanted strain,
Mellow, and sweet, and faint—
As if some spirit’s touch had given
The soul of sound to harp of heaven
To soothe a dying saint!
Is it the mermaid’s distant shell,
Warbling beneath the moonlit wave?
—Such witching tones might lure full well
The seaman to his grave!
Sure from no mortal touch ye rise,
Wild, soft, aërial melodies!
—Is it the song of woodland-fay
From sparry grot, or haunted bower?
Hark! floating on, the magic lay
Draws near yon ivied tower!
Now nearer still, the listening ear
May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear;
And accents low, as if in fear,
Thus murmur, half suppress’d:—
“Awake! the moon is bright on high,
The sea is calm, the bark is nigh,
The world is hush’d to rest!”
Then sinks the voice—the strain is o’er,
Its last low cadence dies along the shore.

Fair Bertha hears th’ expected song,
Swift from her tower she glides along;
No echo to her tread awakes,
Her fairy step no slumber breaks;
And, in that hour of silence deep,
While all around the dews of sleep
O’erpower each sense, each eyelid steep,
Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear,
Her dark eye glistens with a tear.
Half-wavering now, the varying cheek
And sudden pause her doubts bespeak,
The lip now flush’d, now pale as death,
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath!
Oh! in that moment, o’er her soul
What struggling passions claim control!
Fear, duty, love, in conflict high,
By turns have won th’ ascendency;
And as, all tremulously bright,
Streams o’er her face the beam of night,
What thousand mix’d emotions play
O’er that fair face, and melt away.
Like forms whose quick succession gleams
O’er fancy’s rainbow-tinted dreams;
Like the swift glancing lights that rise
Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies,
And traverse ocean o’er;
So in that full, impassion’d eye
The changeful meanings rise and die,
Just seen—and then no more!
But oh! too short that pause. Again
Thrills to her heart that witching strain:—
“Awake! the midnight moon is bright:
Awake! the moments wing their flight;
Haste! or they speed in vain!”——
O call of Love! thy potent spell
O’er that weak heart prevails too well;
The “still small voice” is heard no more
That pleaded duty’s cause before,
And fear is hush’d, and doubt is gone,
And pride forgot, and reason flown!
Her cheek, whose colour came and fled,
Resumes its warmest, brightest red,
Her step its quick elastic tread,
Her eye its beaming smile!
Through lonely court and silent hall,
Flits her light shadow o’er the wall;
And still that low, harmonious call
Melts on her ear the while!
Though love’s quick ear alone could tell
The words its accents faintly swell:—
“Awake! while yet the lingering night
And stars and seas befriend our flight:
Oh! haste, while all is well!”——
The halls, the courts, the gates, are past,
She gains the moonlit beach at last.
Who waits to guide her trembling feet?
Who flies the fugitive to greet?
He, to her youthful heart endear’d
By all it e’er had hoped and fear’d,
Twined with each wish, with every thought
Each day-dream fancy e’er had wrought,
Whose tints portray with flattering skill
What brighter worlds alone fulfil!
—Alas! that aught so fair should fly
Thy blighting wand, Reality!

A chieftain’s mien her Osbert bore,
A pilgrim’s lowly robes he wore—
Disguise that vainly strove to hide
Bearing and glance of martial pride;
For he in many a battle-scene,
On many a rampart breach had been;
Had sternly smiled at danger nigh,
Had seen the valiant bleed and die,
And proudly rear’d on hostile tower,
Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower,
Britannia’s banner high!
And though some ancient feud had taught
His Bertha’s sire to loathe his name,
More noble warrior never fought
For glory’s prize or England’s fame.
And well his dark, commanding eye,
And form and step of stately grace,
Accorded with achievements high,
Soul of emprise and chivalry,
Bright name, and generous race!
His cheek, embrown’d by many a sun,
Tells a proud tale of glory won,
Of vigil, march, and combat rude,
Valour, and toil, and fortitude!
E’en while youth’s earliest blushes threw
Warm o’er that cheek their vivid hue,
His gallant soul, his stripling form,
Had braved the battle’s rudest storm;
When England’s conquering archers stood,
And dyed thy plain, Poitiers! with blood,
When shiver’d axe, and cloven shield,
And shatter’d helmet, strew’d the field,
And France around her king in vain
Had marshall’d valour’s noblest train—
In that dread strife his lightning eye
Had flash’d with transport keen and high,
And midst the battle’s wildest tide,
Throbb’d his young heart with hope and pride.

Alike that fearless heart could brave
Death on the war-field or the wave;
Alike in tournament or fight,
That ardent spirit found delight!
Yet oft, midst hostile scenes afar,
Bright o’er his soul a vision came,
Rising like some benignant star,
On stormy seas or plains of war,
To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame,
The heart that throbb’d to Bertha’s name!
And midst the wildest rage of fight,
And in the deepest calm of night,
To her his thoughts would wing their flight
With fond devotion warm;
Oft would those glowing thoughts portray
Some home, from tumults far away,
Graced with that angel form!
And now his spirit fondly deems
Fulfill’d its loveliest, dearest dreams!

Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow,
In minstrel garb attends the chief?
The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow
Reveals a shade of grief.
Sorrow and time have touch’d his face
With mournful yet majestic grace,
Soft as the melancholy smile
Of sunset on some ruin’d pile!
—It is the bard, whose song had power
To lure the maiden from her tower—
The bard, whose wild inspiring lays,
E’en in gay childhood’s earliest days,
First woke, in Osbert’s kindling breast,
The flame that will not be represt,
The pulse that throbs for praise!
Those lays had banish’d from his eye
The bright soft tears of infancy,
Had soothed the boy to calm repose,
Had hush’d his bosom’s earliest woes;
And when the light of thought awoke,
When first young reason’s day-spring broke,
More powerful still, they bade arise
His spirit’s burning energies!
Then the bright dream of glory warm’d,
Then the loud pealing war-song charm’d,
The legends of each martial line,
The battle-tales of Palestine:
And oft, since then, his deeds had proved
Themes of the lofty lays he loved!
Now, at triumphant love’s command,
Since Osbert leaves his native land,
Forsaking glory’s high career
For her than glory far more dear;
Since hope’s gay dream and meteor ray
To distant regions point his way,
That there Affection’s hands may dress
A fairy bower for happiness;
That fond devoted bard, though now
Time’s wintery garland wreathes his brow,
Though quench’d the sunbeam of his eye,
And fled his spirit’s buoyancy,
And strength and enterprise are past,
Still follows constant to the last!
Though his sole wish was but to die
Midst the calm scenes of days gone by,
And all that hallows and endears
The memory of departed years—
Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined
To those loved scenes his pensive mind;
Ah! what can tear the links apart
That bind his chieftain to his heart?
What smile but his with joy can light
The eye obscured by age’s night?
Last of a loved and honour’d line,
Last tie to earth in life’s decline,
Till death its lingering spark shall dim,
That faithful eye must gaze on him!

Silent and swift, with footstep light,
Haste on those fugitives of night.
They reach the boat—the rapid oar
Soon wafts them from the wooded shore:
The bark is gain’d! A gallant few,
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew;
The pennant, in the moonlight beam,
With soft suffusion glows;
From the white sail a silvery gleam
Falls on the wave’s repose;
Long shadows undulating play,
From mast and streamer, o’er the bay;
But still so hush’d the summer air,
They tremble, midst that scene so fair,
Lest morn’s first beam behold them there.
—Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night!
From river wave, or mountain height,
Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers,
By haunted spring in forest bowers;
Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell,
In amber grot, where mermaids dwell,
And cavern’d gems their lustre throw
O’er the red sea-flowers’ vivid glow?
Where treasures, not for mortal gaze,
In solitary splendour blaze,
And sounds, ne’er heard by mortal ear,
Swell through the deep’s unfathom’d sphere?
What grove of that mysterious world
Holds thy light wing in slumber furl’d?
Awake! o’er glittering seas to rove:
Awake! to guide the bark of love!
Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon
Shall fade the bright propitious moon;
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale,
E’en now—but lo! the rustling sail
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale!
The bark glides on—their fears are o’er;
Recedes the bold romantic shore,
Its features mingling fast.
Gaze, Bertha! gaze: thy lingering eye
May still each lovely scene descry
Of years for ever past!
There wave the woods, beneath whose shade
With bounding step thy childhood play’d,
Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns,
Free as their native birds and fawns;
Listening the sylvan sounds, that float
On each low breeze, midst dells remote—
The ringdove’s deep melodious moan,
The rustling deer in thickets lone;
The wild-bee’s hum, the aspen’s sigh,
The wood-stream’s plaintive harmony.
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour,
There thy own mountains darkly tower!
Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude
But thou hast loved its solitude!
No path so wild but thou hast known,
And traced its rugged course alone!
The earliest wreath that bound thy hair
Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there.
There in the day-spring of thy years,
Undimm’d by passions or by tears,
Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye
Wander’d o’er ocean, earth, or sky,
While the wild breeze that round thee blew,
Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue.
Pure as the skies that o’er thy head
Their clear and cloudless azure spread,
Pure as that gale whose light wing drew
Its freshness from the mountain dew,
Glow’d thy young heart with feelings high,
A heaven of hallow’d ecstasy!
Such days were thine! ere love had drawn
A cloud o’er that celestial dawn!
As the clear dews in morning’s beam
With soft reflected colouring stream,
Catch every tint of eastern gem
To form the rose’s diadem,
But vanish when the noontide hour
Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower—
Thus in thy soul each calm delight,
Like morn’s first dew-drops, pure and bright,
Fled swift from passion’s blighting fire,
Or linger’d only to expire!
Spring on thy native hills again
Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise,
And call forth, in each grassy glen,
Her brightest emerald dyes!
There shall the lonely mountain rose,
Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose;
Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream
Shall sparkle in the summer beam;
The birch, o’er precipice and cave,
Its feathery foliage still shall wave,
The ash midst rugged clefts unveil
Its coral clusters to the gale,
And autumn shed a warmer bloom
O’er the rich heath and glowing broom.
But thy light footstep there no more
Each path, each dingle shall explore.
In vain may smile each green recess,
—Who now shall pierce its loneliness?
The stream through shadowy glens may stray,
—Who now shall trace its glistening way?
In solitude, in silence deep,
Shrined midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep,
No lute’s wild swell again shall rise
To wake her mystic melodies.
All soft may blow the mountain air,
—It will not wave thy graceful hair!
The mountain rose may bloom and die,
—It will not meet thy smiling eye!
But like those scenes of vanish’d days,
Shall others ne’er delight;
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze,
Yet seem not half so bright!
O’er the dim woodlands’ fading hue
Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high;
Gaze on, while yet ’tis thine to view
That home of infancy!
Heed not the night-dew’s chilling power,
Heed not the sea-wind’s coldest hour,
But pause and linger on the deck,
Till of those towers no trace, no speck,
Is gleaming o’er the main;
For when the mist of morn shall rise,
Blending the sea, the shore, the skies,
That home, once vanish’d from thine eyes,
Shall bless them ne’er again!

There the dark tales and songs of yore
First with strange transport thrill’d thy soul,
E’en while their fearful mystic lore
From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole.
There, while thy father’s raptured ear
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear,
And in his eye the trembling tear
Reveal’d his spirit’s trance;
How oft, those echoing halls along,
Thy thrilling voice has swell’d the song—
Tradition wild of other days,
Or troubadour’s heroic lays,
Or legend of romance!
Oh! many an hour has there been thine,
That memory’s pencil oft shall dress
In softer shades, and tints that shine
In mellow’d loveliness!
While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears,
Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret,
The sunshine of thine early years,
Scarce deem’d so radiant—till it set!
The cloudless peace, unprized till gone,
The bliss, till vanish’d hardly known!

On rock and turret, wood and hill,
The fading moonbeams linger still,
Still, Bertha! gaze on yon gray tower,
At evening’s last and sweetest hour,
While varying still, the western skies
Flush’d the clear seas with rainbow dyes,
Whose warm suffusions glow’d and pass’d,
Each richer, lovelier, than the last.
How oft, while gazing on the deep,
That seem’d a heaven of peace to sleep,
As if its wave, so still, so fair,
More frowning mien might never wear,
The twilight calm of mental rest
Would steal in silence o’er thy breast,
And wake that dear and balmy sigh
That softly breathes the spirit’s harmony!
—Ah! ne’er again shall hours to thee be given
Of joy on earth—so near allied to heaven!

Why starts the tear to Bertha’s eye?
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh?
Is there a grief his voice, his smile,
His words, are fruitless to beguile?
—Oh! bitter to the youthful heart,
That scarce a pang, a care has known,
The hour when first from scenes we part,
Where life’s bright spring has flown!
Forsaking, o’er the world to roam,
That little shrine of peace—our home!
E’en if delighted fancy throw
O’er that cold world, her brightest glow,
Painting its untried paths with flowers,
That will not live in earthly bowers,
(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear
One breath of life’s ungenial air;)
E’en if such dreams of hope arise
As heaven alone can realise,
Cold were the breast that would not heave
One sigh, the home of youth to leave;
Stern were the heart that would not swell
To breathe life’s saddest word—farewell!
Though earth has many a deeper woe,
Though tears more bitter far must flow,
That hour, whate’er our future lot,
That first fond grief, is ne’er forgot!

Such was the pang of Bertha’s heart,
The thought, that bade the tear-drop start;
And Osbert by her side
Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell
Nature’s fond struggle told too well;
And days of future bliss portray’d,
And love’s own eloquence essay’d,
To soothe his plighted bride!
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells,
In that sweet land to which they fly;
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells
Of blooming Italy.
For he had roved a pilgrim there,
And gazed on many a spot so fair
It seem’d like some enchanted grove,
Where only peace, and joy, and love,
Those exiles of the world, might rove,
And breathe its heavenly air;
And, all unmix’d with ruder tone,
Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone!
Far from the frown of stern control,
That vainly would subdue the soul,
There shall their long-affianced hands
Be join’d in consecrated bands.
And in some rich, romantic vale,
Circled with heights of Alpine snow,
Where citron-woods enrich the gale,
And scented shrubs their balm exhale,
And flowering myrtles blow;
And midst the mulberry boughs on high
Weaves the wild vine her tapestry;
On some bright streamlet’s emerald side,
Where cedars wave in graceful pride,
Bosom’d in groves, their home shall rise,
A shelter’d bower of paradise!
Thus would the lover soothe to rest
With tales of hope her anxious breast;
Nor vain that dear enchanting lore
Her soul’s bright visions to restore,
And bid gay phantoms of delight
Float in soft colouring o’er her sight.
——O Youth! sweet May-morn, fled so soon,
Far brighter than life’s loveliest noon,
How oft thy spirit’s buoyant power
Will triumph, e’en in sorrow’s hour
Prevailing o’er regret!
As rears its head th’ elastic flower
Though the dark tempest’s recent shower
Hang on its petals yet!

Ah! not so soon can hope’s gay smile
The aged bard to joy beguile;
Those silent years that steal away
The cheek’s warm rose, the eye’s bright ray,
Win from the mind a nobler prize,
E’en all its buoyant energies!
For him the April days are past,
When grief was but a fleeting cloud;
No transient shade will sorrow cast,
When age the spirit’s might has bow’d!
And, as he sees the land grow dim,
That native land now lost to him,
Fix’d are his eyes, and clasp’d his hands,
And long in speechless grief he stands:
So desolately calm his air,
He seems an image wrought to bear
The stamp of deep, though hush’d despair.
Motion and life no sign bespeaks,
Save that the night-breeze, o’er his cheeks,
Just waves his silvery hair!
Nought else could teach the eye to know
He was no sculptured form of woe!
Long gazing o’er the dark’ning flood,
Pale in that silent grief he stood,
Till the cold moon was waning fast,
And many a lovely star had died,
And the gray heavens deep shadows cast
Far o’er the slumbering tide;
And, robed in one dark solemn hue,
Arose the distant shore to view.
Then, starting from his trance of woe,
Tears, long suppress’d, in freedom flow,
While thus his wild and plaintive strain
Blends with the murmur of the main.

The Bard’s Farewell.

“Thou setting moon! when next thy rays
Are trembling on the shadowy deep,
The land, now fading from thy gaze,
These eyes in vain shall weep;
And wander o’er the lonely sea,
And fix their tearful glance on thee—
On thee! whose light so softly gleams
Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams.

“But midst those ancient groves, no more
Shall I thy quivering lustre hail;
Its plaintive strain my harp must pour
To swell a foreign gale.
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke
When its full tones their stillness broke,
Deserted now, shall hear alone
The brook’s wild voice, the wind’s mysterious moan.

“And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,
Left by your lord to slow decay,
Soon shall the trophies on your walls
Be mouldering fast away!
There shall no choral songs resound,
There shall no festal board be crown’d;
But ivy wreathe the silent gate,
And all be hush’d, and cold, and desolate.

“No banner from the stately tower
Shall spread its blazon’d folds on high;
There the wild brier and summer flower,
Unmark’d, shall wave and die.
Home of the mighty! thou art lone,
The noonday of thy pride is gone,
And, midst thy solitude profound,
A step shall echo like unearthly sound!

“From thy cold hearths no festal blaze
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light,
Nor welcome with convivial rays
Some pilgrim of the night.
But there shall grass luxuriant spread,
As o’er the dwellings of the dead;
And the deep swell of every blast
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past.

“And I—my joy of life is fled,
My spirit’s power, my bosom’s glow;
The raven locks that graced my head,
Wave in a wreath of snow!
And where the star of youth arose
I deem’d life’s lingering ray should close,
And those loved trees my tomb o’ershade,
Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play’d.

“Vain dream! that tomb in distant earth
Shall rise, forsaken and forgot;
And thou, sweet land that gavest me birth!
A grave must yield me not.
Yet, haply, he for whom I leave
Thy shores, in life’s dark winter eve,
When cold the hand, and closed the lays,
And mute the voice he loved to praise,
O’er the hush’d harp one tear may shed,
And one frail garland o’er the minstrel’s bed!”

Belshazzar’s Feast.

Twas night in Babylon: yet many a beam,
Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high,
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates’ stream
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky,
Whose azure knows no cloud: each whisper’d sigh
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers,
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody,
O’er an illumined wilderness of flowers;
And the glad city’s voice went up from all her towers.

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall,
Where midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band,
High at the stately midnight festival,
Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury’s hand
Had shower’d around all treasures that expand
Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour
The sunbeams back; all sweets of many a land
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore
—But mortal pride look’d on, and still demanded more.

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught,
A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain!
The lord of nations spoke,—and forth were brought
The spoils of Salem’s devastated fane.
Thrice-holy vessels!—pure from earthly stain,
And set apart, and sanctified to Him
Who deign’d within the oracle to reign,
Reveal’d yet shadow’d; making noonday dim,
To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim.

They came, and louder peal’d the voice of song,
And pride flash’d brighter from the kindling eye;
And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng,
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy
The Rock of Zion! Fill the nectar high,
High in the cups of consecrated gold!
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die,
And bid the censers of the temple hold
Offerings to Babel’s gods, the mighty ones of old!

Peace!—is it but a phantom of the brain,
Thus shadow’d forth, the senses to appall,
Yon fearful vision? Who shall gaze again
To search its cause? Along the illumined wall,
Startling yet riveting the eyes of all,
Darkly it moves,—a hand, a human hand,
O’er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall,
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand,
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far-distant land!

There are pale cheeks around the regal board,
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low,
And fitful starts!—the wine, in triumph pour’d,
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow,
The waving censer drops to earth—and lo!
The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth,
Trembles before a shadow! Say not so!
—The child of dust, with guilt’s foreboding sight,
Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite!

“But haste ye!—bring Chaldea’s gifted seers,
The men of prescience! Haply to their eyes,
Which track the future through the rolling spheres,
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.”
They come—the readers of the midnight skies,
They that gave voice to visions—but in vain!
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies,
It hath no language midst the starry train,
Earth has no gifted tongue heaven’s mysteries to explain.

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires,
And other inspiration!—one of those
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres,
And sat and wept, where Babel’s river flows.
His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose
Of his pure features half o’erawed the mind;
Telling of inward mysteries—joys and woes
In lone recesses of the soul enshrined;
Depths of a being seal’d and sever’d from mankind.

Yes!—what was earth to him, whose spirit pass’d
Time’s utmost bounds? on whose unshrinking sight
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast
Their full resplendence? Majesty and might
Were in his dreams; for him the veil of light
Shrouding heaven’s inmost sanctuary and throne,
The curtain of th’ unutterably bright,
Was raised!—to him, in fearful splendour shown,
Ancient of Days! e’en Thou madest thy dread presence known.

He spoke—the shadows of the things to come
Pass’d o’er his soul:—“O King, elate in pride!
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom—
The one, the living God, by thee defied!
He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried,
Hath weigh’d, and found thee wanting. ’Tis decreed
The conqueror’s hands thy kingdom shall divide,
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed!
Thy days are full: they come,—the Persian and the Mede!”

There fell a moment’s thrilling silence round—
A breathless pause!—the hush of hearts that beat,
And limbs that quiver. Is there not a sound,
A gathering-cry, a tread of hurrying feet?
—’Twas but some echo in the crowded street,
Of far-heard revelry; the shout, the song,
The measured dance to music wildly sweet,
That speeds the stars their joyous course along—
Away! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng!

Peace yet again! Hark! steps in tumult flying,
Steeds rushing on, as o’er a battle-field!
The shouts of hosts exulting or defying,
The press of multitudes that strive or yield!
And the loud startling clash of spear and shield,
Sudden as earthquake’s burst; and, blent with these,
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is seal’d
In their full mirth!—all deepening on the breeze,
As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas!

And nearer yet the trumpet’s blast is swelling,
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry;
And, lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling,
Death—bursting on the halls of revelry!
Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die,
The sword hath raged through joy’s devoted train;
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky,
Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane;
Empire is lost and won—Belshazzar with the slain.

[Belshazzar’s Feast had previously been published in the Collection of Poems from Living Authors, edited for a benevolent purpose by Mrs Joanna Baillie.—Memoir, p. 68.

“Miss Baillie’s volume contained several poems by Mrs Hemans; some jeux d’esprit, by the late Miss Catherine Fanshawe, a woman of rare wit and genius, in whose society Scott greatly delighted; and, inter alia, Mr William Howison’s early ballad of Polydore, which had been originally published under Scott’s auspices, in the Edinburgh Register for 1810.”—Lockhart’s Life of Scott, vol. v. p. 287.

It is worthy of remembrance that Sir Walter’s own “Macduff’s Cross,” and Southey’s lively and eccentric nursery rhymes on the “Cataract of Lodoar,” first made their appearance in the collection referred to.]

The Last Constantine.

... “Thou strivest nobly,
When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk;
And o’er thy fall, if it be so decreed,
Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears
...
... Fame I look not for;
But to sustain, in Heaven’s all-seeing eye,
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight,
With graceful virtue and becoming pride,
The dignity and honour of a man,
Thus station’d as I am, I will do all
That man may do.”
Miss Baillie’s “Constantine Palæologus.”

I.

The fires grew pale on Rome’s deserted shrines,
In the dim grot the Pythia’s voice had died;
—Shout for the City of the Constantines,
The rising city of the billow-side,
The City of the Cross!—great ocean’s bride,
Crown’d with her birth she sprung! Long ages past,
And still she look’d in glory o’er the tide,
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,
Pour’d by the burning East, all joyously and fast.

II.

Long ages past!—they left her porphyry halls
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold
Broider’d her mantle, and her castled walls
Frown’d in their strength; yet there were signs which told
The days were full. The pure high faith of old
Was changed; and on her silken couch of sleep
She lay, and murmur’d if a rose-leaf’s fold
Disturb’d her dreams; and call’d her slaves to keep
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her o’er the deep.

III.

But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude;
’Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling,
Breaks on the soft repose by luxury woo’d!
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude
Where the lamps glitter and the wine-cup flows;
And darker hues have stain’d the marble, strew’d
With the fresh myrtle and the short-lived rose;
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.

IV.

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze,
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm’s roar
Through Ida’s giant-pines! Across the seas
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore
From Tempe’s haunted river to the shore
Of the reed-crown’d Eurotas; when, of old,
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o’er
Th’ indignant wave, which would not be controll’d,
But past the Persian’s chain in boundless freedom roll’d.

V.

And it is thus again! Swift oars are dashing
The parted waters, and a light is cast
On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashing
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast.
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast,
A music of the deserts, wild and deep,
Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are pass’d
Where low midst Ilion’s dust her conquerors sleep,
O’ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.

VI.

War from the West!—the snows on Thracian hills
Are loosed by Spring’s warm breath; yet o’er the lands
Which Hæmus girds, the chainless mountain-rills
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands.
War from the East!—midst Araby’s lone sands,
More lonely now the few bright founts may be,
While Ismael’s bow is bent in warrior-hands
Against the Golden City of the sea.
—Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylæ!

VII.

Hear yet again, ye mighty!—Where are they
Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown’d,
Leap’d up in proudly beautiful array,
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound
Of Persia’s clarion? Far and joyous round,
From the pine forests, and the mountain snows,
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound
Of the bright waves, at freedom’s voice they rose!
—Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb’s repose?

VIII.

They slumber with their swords!—the olive shades
In vain are whispering their immortal tale!
In vain the spirit of the past pervades
The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale.
Yet must thou wake, though all unarm’d and pale,
Devoted City! Lo! the Moslem’s spear,
Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear!
—Awake! and summon those, who yet perchance may hear!

IX.

Be hush’d, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping!
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high,
And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry,
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh
To Syrian gales! The sons of each brave line
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry,
And seize the arms which flash’d round Salem’s shrine,
And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine!

X.

All still, all voiceless!—and the billow’s roar
Alone replies! Alike their soul is gone
Who shared the funeral-feast on Œta’s shore,
And theirs that o’er the field of Ascalon
Swell’d the crusaders’ hymn! Then gird thou on
Thine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hour
Which waits thee ere the day’s fierce work is done
With a strong heart: so may thy helmet tower
Unshiver’d through the storm, for generous hope is power!

XI.

But linger not,—array thy men of might!
The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes.
Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming bright,
And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near,
Around thy walls the sons of battle close;
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear,
Which the deep grave alone is charter’d not to hear!

XII.

Away! bring wine, bring odours, to the shade
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high!
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade!
Snatch every brief delight,—since we must die!—
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks! gone by,
For feast in vine-wreath’d bower or pillar’d hall;
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky,
And deep and hollow is the tambour’s call,
And from the startled hand th’ untasted cup will fall.

XIII.

The night—the glorious oriental night,
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven,
With its clear stars! The red artillery’s light,
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven,
To the still firmament’s expanse hath given
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower
Starts wildly forth; and now the air is riven
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds lower,
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow’d hour.

XIV.

Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth,
Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with these
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth
To faith and courage! From luxurious ease
A gallant few have started! O’er the seas,
From the Seven Towers, their banner waves its sign;
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze,
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was thine;
Thy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine.

XV.

Was Rome thy parent? Didst thou catch from her
The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye?
—That city of the throne and sepulchre
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die!
Heir of the Cæsars! did that lineage high,
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass’d
With its long march of spectred imagery,
Th’ heroic mantle o’er thy spirit cast?
Thou! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last!

XVI.

Vain dreams! Upon that spirit hath descended
Light from the living Fountain, whence each thought
Springs pure and holy! In that eye is blended
A spark, with earth’s triumphal memories fraught,
And, far within, a deeper meaning, caught
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust,
Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought
(Though through its veil seen darkly from the dust)
In realms where Time no more hath power upon the just.

XVII.

Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain,
And in the sun’s bright face, and midst th’ array
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain,
The Roman cast his glittering mail away,
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay
O’er breathless thousands at his voice who started,
Call’d on the unseen terrific powers that sway
The heights, the depths, the shades; then, fearless-hearted,
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed!

XVIII.

But then, around him as the javelins rush’d,
From earth to heaven swell’d up the loud acclaim;
And, ere his heart’s last free libation gush’d,
With a bright smile, the warrior caught his name
Far-floating on the winds! And Victory came,
And made the hour of that immortal deed
A life, in fiery feeling! Valour’s aim
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed
Was to be Rome’s high star!—He died—and had his meed.

XIX.

But praise—and dearer, holier praise be theirs,
Who, in the stillness and the solitude
Of hearts press’d earthwards by a weight of cares,
Uncheer’d by Fame’s proud hope, th’ ethereal food
Of restless energies, and only view’d
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne,
Is on the soul’s dark places; have subdued
And vow’d themselves with strength till then unknown,
To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone.

XX.

Theirs be the bright and sacred names, enshrined
Far in the bosom! for their deeds belong,
Not to the gorgeous faith which charm’d mankind
With its rich pomp of festival and song,
Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng;
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries
Man’s hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong
Than storm or earthquake’s voice; for thence arise
All that mysterious world’s unseen sublimities.

XXI.

Well might thy name, brave Constantine! awake
Such thought, such feeling!—But the scene again
Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break
Through the red sulphurous mists: the camp, the plain,
The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane,
With its bright cross fix’d high in crowning grace;
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main,
And, circling all with arms, that turban’d race—
The sun, the desert, stamp’d in each dark haughty face.

XXII.

Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streaming
Red o’er the waters! Hail, deliverers, hail!
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming,
Is Hope’s own smile! They crowd the swelling sail,
On, with the foam, the sunbeam and the gale,
Borne, as a victor’s car! The batteries pour
Their clouds and thunders; but the rolling veil
Of smoke floats up the exulting winds before!
—And oh! the glorious burst of that bright sea and shore!

XXIII.

The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe’s, Asia’s coast,
All throng’d! one theatre for kingly war!
A monarch, girt with his barbaric host,
Points o’er the beach his flashing scimitar!
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar,
Hands waving banners o’er each battlement,
Decks, with their serried guns, array’d to bar
The promised aid: but hark! a shout is sent
Up from the noble barks!—the Moslem line is rent!

XXIV.

On, on through rushing flame and arrowy shower,
The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way;
And, with the shadows of the vesper hour,
Furl’d their white sails, and anchor’d in the bay.
Then were the streets with song and torch-fire gay,
Then the Greek wines flow’d mantling in the light
Of festal halls; and there was joy!—the ray
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright—
The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight.

XXV.

For vain that feeble succour! Day by day
Th’ imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweep
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play,
Comes powerful, as when heaven unbinds the deep!
—Man’s heart is mightier than the castled steep,
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled;
Man’s thoughts work darkly in such hours, and sleep
Flies far; and in their mien, the walls who tread,
Things by the brave untold may fearfully be read!

XXVI.

It was a sad and solemn task, to hold
Their midnight-watch on that beleaguer’d wall!
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roll’d,
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall;
The heavy clouds were as an empire’s pall,
The giant shadows of each tower and fane
Lay like the grave’s; a low mysterious call
Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain,
A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain.

XXVII.

For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing,
The Thracian drum, the Tartar’s drowsy song;
Might almost hear the soldan’s banner swaying,
The watchword mutter’d in some eastern tongue.
Then flash’d the gun’s terrific light along
The marble streets, all stillness—not repose;
And boding thoughts came o’er them, dark and strong;
For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those
Who see their number’d hours fast pressing to the close.

XXVIII.

But strength is from the Mightiest! There is one
Still in the breach and on the rampart seen,
Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun,
And tells in silence how the night hath been
In kingly halls a vigil: yet serene
The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye;
And there is that in his collected mien,
To which the hearts of noble men reply
With fires, partaking not this frame’s mortality!

XXIX.

Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate
To pass o’er earth in brightness but alone;
High power was made their birthright, to create
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own!
A thousand echoes of their spirit’s tone
Start into life, where’er their path may be,
Still following fast; as when the wind hath blown
O’er Indian groves, a wanderer wild and free,
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree!

XXX.

And it is thus with thee! thy lot is cast
On evil days, thou Cæsar!—yet the few,
That set their generous bosom to the blast
Which rocks thy throne—the fearless and the true,
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew
The free devotion of the years gone by,
When from bright dreams th’ ascendant Roman drew
Enduring strength! States vanish—ages fly—
But leave one task unchanged—to suffer and to die!

XXXI.

These are our nature’s heritage. But thou,
The crown’d with empire! thou wert call’d to share
A cup more bitter. On thy fever’d brow
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear,
Which long had pass’d away; alone to bear
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came
As a strong billow in their weight of care,
And with all this to smile! For earth-born frame
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown to fame!

XXXII.

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field,
On the red scaffold; and where’er, in sight
Of human eyes, the human soul is steel’d
To deeds that seem as of immortal might,
Yet are proud Nature’s! But her meteor-light
Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not where
In silence, and in secret, and in night,
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair,
And rise more strong than death from its unwitness’d prayer.

XXXIII.

Men have been firm in battle; they have stood
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains,
And won the birthright of their hearths with blood,
And died rejoicing, midst their ancient fanes,
That so their children, undefiled with chains,
Might worship there in peace. But they that stand
When not a beacon o’er the wave remains,
Link’d but to perish with a ruin’d land,
Where Freedom dies with them—call these a martyr-band!

XXXIV.

But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance,
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye,
It is but as the Roman’s stoic glance
Fell on that stage, where man’s last agony
Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die,
Reck’d not which champion; but prepared the strain,
And bound the bloody wreath of victory,
To greet the conqueror; while, with calm disdain,
The vanquish’d proudly met the doom he met in vain.

XXXV.

The hour of Fate comes on! and it is fraught
With this of Liberty, that now the need
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought,
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must bleed,
With Hope’s fair-seeming drapery. We are freed
From tasks like these by misery: one alone
Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed,
Prince, watcher, wearied one! when thou hast shown
How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave and throne.

XXXVI.

The signs are full. They are not in the sky,
Nor in the many voices of the air,
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high
Toss their wild spears: no meteor banners glare,
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair;
And yet the signs are full: too truly seen
In the thinn’d ramparts, in the pale despair
Which lends one language to a people’s mien,
And in the ruin’d heaps where wall and towers have been!

XXXVII.

It is a night of beauty: such a night
As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade,
Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright,
Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and glade
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade
Their forest haunts; a night to rove alone
Where the young leaves by vernal winds are sway’d,
And the reeds whisper with a dreamy tone
Of melody that seems to breathe from worlds unknown;

XXXVIII.

A night to call from green Elysium’s bowers
The shades of elder bards; a night to hold
Unseen communion with th’ inspiring powers
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old;
A night for mourners, o’er the hallow’d mould,
To strew sweet flowers—for revellers to fill
And wreathe the cup—for sorrows to be told
Which love hath cherish’d long. Vain thoughts! be still!
It is a night of fate, stamp’d with Almighty Will!

XXXIX.

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rending
The ancient summits in its dread career!
And with vast billows wrathfully contending,
And with dark clouds o’ershadowing every sphere!
But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with fear,
Passing to lay the sovereign cities low,
Alike in His omnipotence is near,
When the soft winds o’er spring’s green pathway blow,
And when His thunders cleave the monarch mountain’s brow.

XL.

The heavens in still magnificence look down
On the hush’d Bosphorus, whose ocean stream
Sleeps with its paler stars: the snowy crown
Of far Olympus, in the moonlight gleam,
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan’s dream
Throng’d it with gods, and bent th’ adoring knee;
—But that is past—and now the One Supreme
Fills not alone those haunts, but earth, air, sea,
And Time, which presses on to finish his decree.

XLI.

Olympus, Ida, Delphi! ye, the thrones
And temples of a visionary might,
Brooding in clouds above your forest zones,
And mantling thence the realms beneath with night:
Ye have look’d down on battles—Fear and Flight,
And arm’d Revenge, all hurrying past below!—
But there is yet a more appalling sight
For earth prepared than e’er, with tranquil brow,
Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and snow!

XLII.

Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp,
And Asia’s hills re-echo’d to a cry
Of savage mirth! Wild horn and war-steeds’ tramp
Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry,
The clash of desert-spears! Last night the sky
A hue of menace and of wrath put on,
Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and high,
And countless as the flames in ages gone,
Streaming to heaven’s bright queen from shadowy Lebanon!

XLIII.

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep
Which wraps those Eastern thousands? Yes! perchance
Along yon moonlit shore and dark-blue deep,
Bright are their visions with the Houri’s glance,
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance
Beneath the bowers of paradise that shed
Rich odours o’er the faithful; but the lance,
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers spread,
Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the dead.

XLIV.

May this be sleep, this hush?—A sleepless eye
Doth hold its vigil midst that dusky race!
One that would scan th’ abyss of destiny
E’en now is gazing on the skies to trace,
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space,
Fate’s mystic pathway: they the while, serene,
Walk in their beauty; but Mohammed’s face
Kindles beneath their aspect, and his mien,
All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen.

XLV.

Oh! wild presumption of a conqueror’s dream,
To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind
O’er fields of blood! But with the restless mind
It hath been ever thus! and they that weep
For worlds to conquer, o’er the bounds assign’d
To human search, in daring pride would sweep,
As o’er the trampled dust wherein they soon must sleep.

XLVI.

But ye! that beam’d on Fate’s tremendous night,
When the storm burst o’er golden Babylon;
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light
O’er burning Salem, by the Roman won;
And ye, that calmly view’d the slaughter done
In Rome’s own streets, when Alaric’s trumpet-blast
Rang through the Capitol: bright spheres! roll on!
Still bright, though empires fall; and bid man cast
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the past.

XLVII.

For it hath mighty lessons! from the tomb,
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where,
Midst the wreck’d cities in the desert’s gloom,
All tameless creatures make their savage lair,
Thence comes its voice, that shakes the midnight air,
And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day,
And thrills the soul;—yet bids us not despair,
But make one Rock our shelter and our stay,
Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay!

XLVIII.

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam
O’er the hush’d waters tremulously fall,
Pour’d from the Cæsars’ palace; now the beam
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall,
And from its long arcades and pillars tall
Soft graceful shadows undulating lie
On the wave’s heaving bosom, and recall
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky,
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry.

XLIX.

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound!
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more,
Wafting an atmosphere of music round,
Tells the hush’d seaman, gliding past the shore,
How monarchs revel there! Its feasts are o’er—
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade?
—I see a train of guests in silence pour
Through its long avenues of terraced shade,
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone were made!

L.

In silence, and in arms! With helm—with sword—
These are no marriage garments! Yet e’en now
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board,
Thy Georgian bride should wreathe her lovely brow
With an imperial diadem!—but thou,
O fated prince! art call’d, and these with thee,
To darker scenes; and thou hast learn’d to bow
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree,
And count it joy enough to perish—being free!

LI.

On through long vestibules, with solemn tread,
As men, that in some time of fear and woe,
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead,
O’er whom by day their sorrows may not flow,
The warriors pass: their measured steps are slow,
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls,
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go
In desolate pomp; and from the pictured walls,
Sad seems the light itself which on their armour falls!

LII.

And they have reach’d a gorgeous chamber, bright
With all we dream of splendour; yet a gloom
Seems gather’d o’er it to the boding sight,
A shadow that anticipates the tomb!
Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume
A purple canopy, a golden throne;
But it is empty!—hath the stroke of doom
Fallen there already? Where is He, the One,
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone?

LIII.

Oh! there are times whose pleasure doth efface
Earth’s vain distinctions! When the storm beats loud,
When the strong towers are tottering to their base,
And the streets rock,—who mingle in the crowd?
—Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud,
Are in that throng! Yes, life hath many an hour
Which makes us kindred, by one chast’ning bow’d,
And feeling but, as from the storm we cower,
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded power!

LIV.

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high,
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak,
In the deep human heart more gloriously,
Than in the bursting thunder! Thence the weak,
They that seem’d form’d, as flower-stems, but to break
With the first wind, have risen to deeds whose name
Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek,
And thrill the pulse!—Ay, strength no pangs could tame
Hath look’d from woman’s eye upon the sword and flame!

LV.

And this is of such hours!—That throne is void,
And its lord comes uncrown’d. Behold him stand,
With a calm brow, where woes have not destroy’d
The Greek’s heroic beauty, midst his band,
The gather’d virtue of a sinking land—
Alas! how scanty! Now is cast aside
All form of princely state; each noble hand
Is press’d by turns in his: for earthly pride
There is no room in hearts where earthly hope hath died!

LVI.

A moment’s hush—and then he speaks—he speaks!
But not of hope! that dream hath long gone by:
His words are full of memory—as he seeks,
By the strong names of Rome and Liberty,
Which yet are living powers that fire the eye,
And rouse the heart of manhood; and by all
The sad yet grand remembrances, that lie
Deep with earth’s buried heroes; to recall
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall!

LVII.

His words are full of faith!—and thoughts, more high
Than Rome e’er knew, now fill his glance with light;
Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die,
Than e’er were drawn from Nature’s haughty might!
And to that eye, with all the spirit bright,
Have theirs replied in tears, which may not shame
The bravest in such moments! ’Tis a sight
To make all earthly splendours cold and tame,
—That generous burst of soul, with its electric flame!

LVIII.

They weep—those champions of the Cross—they weep,
Yet vow themselves to death! Ay, midst that train,
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep
Their lofty sacrifice! The pang is vain,
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain
A warrior’s sword. Those men are strangers here:
The homes they never may behold again,
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear,
On laughing shores, to which their barks no more shall steer!

LIX.

Know’st thou the land where bloom the orange bowers?
Where, through dark foliage, gleam the citron’s dyes?
—It is their own. They see their fathers’ towers
Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise:
They meet, in soul, the bright Italian eyes
Which long and vainly shall explore the main
For their white sails’ return: the melodies
Of that sweet land are floating o’er their brain—
Oh! what a crowded world one moment may contain!

LX.

Such moments come to thousands!—few may die
Amidst their native shades. The young, the brave,
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye
Made summer in a parent’s heart, and gave
Light to their peopled homes; o’er land and wave
Are scatter’d fast and far, as rose-leaves fall
From the deserted stem. They find a grave
Far from the shadow of th’ ancestral hall,
A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope to all!

LXI.

But life flows on, and bears us with its tide,
Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell,
Though they were those once blooming at our side
In youth’s gay home! Away! what sound’s deep swell
Comes on the wind?—It is an empire’s knell,
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night!
For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell
Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite,
With a funereal voice of solitary might.

LXII.

Again, and yet again! A startling power
In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear,
Full on remembrance, each eventful hour
Checkering life’s crowded path. They fill the air
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear
A mien like joy’s; and when your brides are led
From their paternal homes; and when the glare
Of burning streets on midnight’s cloud waves red,
And when the silent house receives its guest—the dead.

LXIII.

But to those tones what thrilling soul was given
On that last night of empire! As a spell
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven,
On the chill’d heart of multitudes they fell.
Each cadence seem’d a prophecy, to tell
Of sceptres passing from their line away,
An angel-watcher’s long and sad farewell,
The requiem of a faith’s departing sway,
A throne’s, a nation’s dirge, a wail for earth’s decay.

LXIV.

Again, and yet again!—from yon high dome,
Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they
Who never more, to rest in mortal home,
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day,
Th’ imperial band, in close and arm’d array,
As men that from the sword must part no more,
Take through the midnight streets their silent way,
Within their ancient temple to adore,
Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are o’er.

LXV.

It is the hour of sleep: yet few the eyes
O’er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed
In the beleaguer’d city. Stillness lies,
With moonlight, o’er the hills and waters spread.
But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread,
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet
The last brave Constantine; and yet the tread
Of many steps is in the echoing street,
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why they meet.

LXVI.

Their homes are luxury’s yet; why pour they thence
With a dim terror in each restless eye?
Hath the dread car which bears the pestilence,
In darkness, with its heavy wheels roll’d by,
And rock’d their palaces, as if on high
The whirlwind pass’d? From couch and joyous board
Hath the fierce phantom beckon’d them to die!
—No!—what are these?—for them a cup is pour’d
More dark with wrath,—man comes—the spoiler and the sword.

LXVII.

Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch-light throws
On some wild form, amidst the living mass,
Hues, deeply red like lava’s, which disclose
What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes!
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp’d in prayer,
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward shows
Betokening inward agonies, were there:
Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair!

LXVIII.

But high above that scene, in bright repose,
And beauty borrowing from the torches’ gleams
A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows,
But all instinct with loftier being seems,
Pale, grand, colossal: lo! th’ embodied dreams
Of yore!—Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought,
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes
Of mortal passion! Yet ’twas man that caught,
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought!

LXIX.

Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome?
That Rome which witness’d, in her sceptred days,
So much of noble death? When shrine and dome,
Midst clouds of incense, rang with choral lays,
As the long triumph pass’d, with all its blaze
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne,
O sovereign forms! concentring all the rays
Of the soul’s lightnings?—did ye not adorn
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on, and to mourn?

LXX.

Hath it been thus?—Or did ye grace the halls,
Once peopled by the mighty? Haply there,
In your still grandeur, from the pillar’d walls
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair,
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare
The stroke of its deliverance, midst the glow
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air,
The sound of lyres, the flower-crown’d goblet’s flow.
—Behold again!—high hearts make nobler offerings now!

LXXI.

The stately fane is reach’d—and at its gate
The warriors pause. On life’s tumultuous tide
A stillness falls, while he whom regal state
Hath mark’d from all, to be more sternly tried
By suffering, speaks: each ruder voice hath died,
While his implores forgiveness!—“If there be
One midst your throngs, my people! whom, in pride
Or passion, I have wrong’d; such pardon free
As mortals hope from heaven, accord that man to me!”

LXXII.

But all is silence; and a gush of tears
Alone replies! He hath not been of those
Who, fear’d by many, pine in secret fears
Of all; th’ environ’d but by slaves and foes,
To whom day brings not safety, night repose,
For they have heard the voice cry, “Sleep no more!”
Of them he hath not been, nor such as close
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o’er,
When it speaks low and kneels th’ oppressor’s throne before!

LXXIII.

He hath been loved. But who may trust the love
Of a degenerate race?—in other mould
Are cast the free and lofty hearts that prove
Their faith through fiery trials. Yet behold,
And call him not forsaken!—thoughts untold
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread
Moves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfold
Within its precincts! Isles and seas have shed
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th’ imperial dead.

LXXIV.

’Tis a proud vision—that most regal pile
Of ancient days! The lamps are streaming bright
From its rich altar, down each pillar’d aisle,
Whose vista fades in dimness; but the sight
Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light
Develops on those walls the thousand dyes
Of the vein’d marbles, which array their height,
And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes,
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies.

LXXV.

But gaze thou not on these; though heaven’s own hues
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie—
Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse
Arch, column, rich mosaic—pass thou by
The stately tombs, where Eastern Cæsars lie,
Beneath their trophies: pause not here; for know,
A deeper source of all sublimity
Lives in man’s bosom, than the world can show
In nature or in art—above, around, below.

LXXVI.

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy gaze)
The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone:
Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze;
Those heads unhelm’d, those kneeling forms alone,
Thus bow’d, look glorious here. The light is thrown
Full from the shrine on one, a nation’s lord,
A sufferer! but his task shall soon be done—
E’en now, as Faith’s mysterious cup is pour’d,
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, restored!

LXXVII.

The rite is o’er. The band of brethren part,
Once—and but once—to meet on earth again!
Each, in the strength of a collected heart,
To dare what man may dare—and know ’tis vain!
The rite is o’er: and thou, majestic fane!
The glory is departed from thy brow!—
Be clothed with dust!—the Christian’s farewell strain
Hath died within these walls; thy Cross must bow,
Thy kingly tombs be spoil’d, the golden shrines laid low!

LXXVIII.

The streets grow still and lonely—and the star,
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn,
Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war,
As if young Hope with twilight’s ray were born,
Awhile the city sleeps: her throngs, o’erworn
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire.
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn
With battle-sounds; the winds in sighs expire,
And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam’s fire.

LXXIX.

The city sleeps! Ay! on the combat’s eve,
And by the scaffold’s brink, and midst the swell
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve
Thus from her cares. The brave have slumber’d well,
And e’en the fearful, in their dungeon cell,
Chain’d between life and death. Such rest be thine,
For conflicts wait thee still!—yet who can tell,
In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine
Full on thy spirit’s dream!—Sleep, weary Constantine!

LXXX.

Doth the blast rise?—the clouded east is red,
As if a storm were gathering; and I hear
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread,
The soft and smother’d step of those that fear
Surprise from ambush’d foes. Hark! yet more near
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound;
A rustling, as of winds, where boughs are sere—
A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground
From far; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound!

LXXXI.

Wake! wake! They come from sea and shore ascending
In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day!
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending,
Through tower and wall, a path for their array?
Hark! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey,
With its wild voice, to which the seas reply;
And the earth rocks beneath their engines’ sway,
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry,
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky!

LXXXII.

They fail not now, the generous band, that long
Have ranged their swords around a falling throne;
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong,
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own!
—Shall those high energies be vainly shown?
No! from their towers th’ invading tide is driven
Back, like the Red Sea waves, when God had blown
With his strong winds! The dark-brow’d ranks are riven:
Shout, warriors of the Cross!—for victory is of Heaven!

LXXXIII.

Stand firm! Again the Crescent host is rushing,
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep,
With all their fires and darts, though blood is gushing
Fast o’er their sides, as rivers to the deep.
Stand firm!—there yet is hope; th’ ascent is steep,
And from on high no shaft descends in vain.
—But those that fall swell up the mangled heap,
In the red moat, the dying and the slain,
And o’er that fearful bridge the assailants mount again!

LXXXIV.

Oh! the dread mingling, in that awful hour,
Of all terrific sounds!—the savage tone
Of the wild horn, the cannon’s peal, the shower
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o’erthrown,
The deep dull tambour’s beat—man’s voice alone
Is there unheard! Ye may not catch the cry
Of trampled thousands—prayer, and shriek, and moan,
All drown’d, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by,
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory.

LXXXV.

War-clouds have wrapt the city!—through their dun
O’erloaded canopy, at times a blaze
As of an angry storm-presaging sun,
From the Greek fire shoots up! and lightning rays
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the haze,
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air!
—Ay! this is in the compass of our gaze,
But fearful things unknown, untold, are there—
Workings of wrath and death, and anguish, and despair!

LXXXVI.

Woe, shame and woe!—A chief, a warrior flies,
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale!
—Oh God! that Nature’s passing agonies
Thus, o’er the spark which dies not, should prevail!
Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter’d mail,
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa’s fallen son!
Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail!
—But there are tortures which thou canst not shun:
The spirit is their prey—thy pangs are but begun!

LXXXVII.

Oh, happy in their homes, the noble dead!
The seal is set on their majestic fame;
Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they shed,
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name!
They may not, in one bitter moment, shame
Long glorious years. From many a lofty stem
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle hearts grow tame,
And stars drop, fading from the diadem;
But the bright past is theirs—there is no change for them!

LXXXVIII.

Where art thou, Constantine?—where death is reaping
His sevenfold harvest!—where the stormy light,
Fast as th’ artillery’s thunderbolts are sweeping,
Throws meteor-bursts o’er battle’s noonday-night!
Where the towers rock and crumble from their height,
As to the earthquake, and the engines ply
Like red Vesuvio; and where human might
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high,
While scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply.

LXXXIX.

Where art thou, Constantine?—where Christian blood
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain!
Where faith and valour perish in the flood,
Whose billows, rising o’er their bosoms, gain
Dark strength each moment; where the gallant slain
Around the banner of the Cross lie strew’d
Thick as the vine-leaves on th’ autumnal plain;
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued,
And through the breach press on th’ o’erwhelming
multitude.

XC.

Now is he battling midst a host alone,
As the last cedar stems awhile the sway
Of mountain storms, whose fury hath o’erthrown
Its forest-brethren in their green array!
And he hath cast his purple robe away,
With its imperial bearings, that his sword
An iron ransom from the chain may pay,
And win, what haply fate may yet accord,
A soldier’s death—the all now left an empire’s lord!

XCI.

Search for him now where bloodiest lie the files
Which once were men, the faithful and the brave!
Search for him now where loftiest rise the piles
Of shatter’d helms and shields which could not save,
And crests and banners never more to wave
In the free winds of heaven! He is of those
O’er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave,
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close,
Yet wake them not!—so deep their long and last repose!

XCII.

Woe to the vanquish’d!—thus it hath been still
Since Time’s first march! Hark, hark, a people’s cry!
Ay, now the conquerors in the streets fulfil
Their task of wrath! In vain the victims fly;
Hark! now each piercing tone of agony
Blends in the city’s shriek! The lot is cast.
Slaves! ’twas your choice thus, rather thus, to die,
Than where the warrior’s blood flows warm and fast,
And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the last!

XCIII.

Oh! well doth freedom battle! Men have made,
E’en midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand,
And on the floors, where once their children play’d,
And by the hearths, round which their household band
At evening met; ay, struggling hand to hand,
Within the very chambers of their sleep,
There have they taught the spoilers of the land
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep,
To guard free homes! But ye!—kneel, tremblers! kneel, and weep!

XCIV.

’Tis eve—the storm hath died, the valiant rest
Low on their shields; the days fierce work is done,
And blood-stain’d seas and burning towers attest
Its fearful deeds. An empire’s race is run!
Sad, midst his glory, looks the parting sun
Upon the captive city. Hark! a swell
(Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won)
Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell
The Soldan comes within the Cæsars’ halls to dwell!

XCV.

Yes! with the peal of cymbal and of gong,
He comes: the Moslem treads those ancient halls!
But all is stillness there, as death had long
Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls.
And half that silence of the grave appals
The conqueror’s heart. Ay! thus, with triumph’s hour,
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower
O’er grandeur’s path, a sense of some far mightier Power!

XCVI.

“The owl upon Afrasiab’s towers hath sung
Her watch-song, and around th’ imperial throne
The spider weaves his web!”—Still darkly hung
That verse of omen, as a prophet’s tone,
O’er his flush’d spirit. Years on years have flown
To prove its truth: kings pile their domes in air,
That the coil’d snake may bask on sculptured stone,
And nations clear the forest, to prepare
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings there!

XCVII.

But thou! that on thy ramparts proudly dying,
As a crown’d leader in such hours should die,
Upon thy pyre of shiver’d spears art lying,
With the heavens o’er thee for a canopy,
And banners for thy shroud! No tear, no sigh,
Shall mingle with thy dirge; for thou art now
Beyond vicissitude! Lo! rear’d on high,
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow—
But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, art thou!

XCVIII.

“After life’s fitful fever thou sleep’st well!”
We may not mourn thee! Sceptred chiefs, from whom
The earth received her destiny, and fell
Before them trembling—to a sterner doom
Have oft been call’d. For them the dungeon’s gloom,
With its cold starless midnight, hath been made
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb,
Without a tomb’s repose, the chain hath weigh’d
Their very soul to dust, with each high power decay’d.

XCIX.

Or in the eye of thousands they have stood,
To meet the stroke of death; but not like thee!
From bonds and scaffolds hath appeal’d their blood,
But thou didst fall unfetter’d, arm’d, and free,
And kingly to the last! And if it be,
That from the viewless world, whose marvels none
Return to tell, a spirit’s eye can see
The things of earth: still may’st thou hail the sun,
Which o’er thy land shall dawn, when freedom’s fight is won!

C.

And the hour comes, in storm! A light is glancing
Far through the forest god’s Arcadian shades!
—’Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing,
Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades.
A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades,
Round dark Cithæron and by Delphi’s steep;
—’Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids,
Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep,
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding deep!

CI.

Arms glitter on the mountains, which of old
Awoke to freedom’s first heroic strain,
And by the streams, once crimson, as they roll’d
The Persian helm and standard to the main;
And the blue waves of Salamis again
Thrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply,
With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain,
Far as Platæa’s, where the mighty lie,
Who crown’d so proudly there the bowl of liberty!

CII.

Bright land, with glory mantled o’er by song!
Land of the vision-peopled hills, and streams,
And fountains, whose deserted banks along
Still the soft air with inspiration teems;
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be themes
To verse for ever; and of ruin’d shrines,
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams,
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines?
—When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath their vines?

CIII.

Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor fear!
—Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave
O’er Mantinea’s earth?—doth Pindus rear
His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave?
And is there yet on Marathon a grave?
And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line
By Sparta’s ruins? And shall man, a slave,
Bow’d to the dust, amid such scenes repine?
—If e’er a soil was mark’d for freedom’s step, ’tis thine!

CIV.

Wash from that soil the stains with battle-showers.
—Beneath Sophia’s dome the Moslem prays,
The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers,
In the Comneni’s halls the Tartar sways:
But not for long!—the spirit of those days,
When the three hundred made their funeral pile
Of Asia’s dead, is kindling, like the rays
Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian isle.

CV.

If then ’tis given thee to arise in might,
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the chain,
Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright!
The cross of victory should not know a stain!
So may that faith once more supremely reign,
Through which we lift our spirits from the dust!
And deem not, e’en when virtue dies in vain,
She dies forsaken; but repose our trust
On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable—but just.

Annotation on “the Last Constantine.”

[It may seem necessary to mention that “The Last Constantine” first appeared in a volume (Murray, 1823) along with “Belshazzar’s Feast,” the “Siege of Valencia,” and some lyrical miscellanies.

“The present publication appears to us, (Dr Morehead in Constable’s Magazine, Sept. 1823,) in every respect superior to any thing Mrs Hemans has yet written: more powerful in particular passages—more interesting in the narrative part—as pathetic and delicate in the reflective—as elaborately faultless in its versification—as copious in imagery. Of the longer poems, ‘The Last Constantine’ is our favourite.... The leading features of Constantine’s character seem to be taken from the unequal, but, on the whole, admirable play of Constantine Palæologus, by the gifted rival of our authoress, Joanna Baillie; and the picture of that enduring and Christian courage which, in the midst of a ruined city and a fallen state, sustained the last of the Cæsars, when all earthly hope and help had failed him, is eminently touching and poetical. The following stanzas appear to us particularly beautiful:—

‘Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth,
Sounds in the air, of battle,’ etc.

The following stanzas, too, in which the leading idea of Constantine’s character is still more fully brought out, are likewise excellent:—

‘It was a sad and solemn task to hold
Their midnight watch on that beleaguer’d wall,’ etc.

These are splendid passages, justly conceived, admirably expressed, full of eloquence and melody; and the poem contains many others equally beautiful. As we have already hinted, the story might have been better told—or rather, there is scarcely any story at all; but the reader is borne down the stream of pensive reflection so gently, and so easily, that he scarcely perceives the want of it.”]

The League of the Alps;

OR, THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI.

[It was in the year 1308 that the Swiss rose against the tyranny of the bailiffs appointed over them by Albert of Austria. The field called the Grutli, at the foot of the Seelisberg, and near the boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was fixed upon by three spirited yeomen, Walter Furst, (the father-in-law of William Tell,) Werner Stauffacher, and Erni (or Arnold) Melchthal, as their place of meeting to deliberate on the accomplishment of their projects.

“Hither came Furst and Melchthal, along secret paths over the heights, and Stauffacher in his boat across the Lake of the Four Cantons. On the night preceding the 11th of November 1307, they met here, each with ten associates, men of approved worth; and while at this solemn hour they were wrapt in the contemplation that on their success depended the fate of their whole posterity, Werner, Walter, and Arnold held up their hands to heaven, and in the name of the Almighty, who has created man to an inalienable degree of freedom, swore jointly and strenuously to defend that freedom. The thirty associates heard the oath with awe; and with uplifted hands attested the same God, and all his saints, that they were firmly bent on offering up their lives for the defence of their injured liberty. They then calmly agreed on their future proceedings, and for the present each returned to his hamlet.”—Planta’s History of the Helvetic Confederacy.

On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded in throwing off the Austrian yoke, and “it is well attested,” says the same author, “that not one drop of blood was shed on this memorable occasion, nor had one proprietor to lament the loss of a claim, a privilege, or an inch of land. The Swiss met on the succeeding Sabbath, and once more confirmed by oath their ancient, and (as they fondly named it) their perpetual league.”]

I.

’Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn’s wild horn,
Like a wind’s voice, had pour’d its last long tone,
Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods borne,
To the low cabins of the glens made known
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone
By cliff and pine bridge to their place of rest;
The chamois slumber’d, for the chase was done;
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press’d,
And the rock-eagle couch’d high on his cloudy nest.

II.

Did the land sleep? The woodman’s axe had ceased
Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane;
The grapes were gather’d in; the vintage feast
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper’s strain
Hush’d by the streams; the year was in its wane,
The night in its mid watch—it was a time
E’en mark’d and hallow’d unto slumber’s reign;
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime,
And o’er his white Alps moved the spirit of the clime.

III.

For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread,
High and unmark’d by mortal footstep lay;
And there, where torrents, mid the ice-caves fed,
Burst in their joy of light and sound away;
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play,
Had hung man’s dwellings midst the realms of air,
O’er cliffs the very birthplace of the day—
Oh! who would dream that tyranny could dare
To lay her withering hand on God’s bright works e’en there?

IV.

Yet thus it was. Amidst the fleet streams gushing
To bring down rainbows o’er their sparry cell,
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest rushing
Up where the sun’s red fire-glance earliest fell,
And the fresh pastures where the herd’s sweet bell
Recall’d such life as Eastern patriarchs led;
There peasant men their free thoughts might not tell
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread,
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt’s dull stealthy tread.

V.

But in a land of happy shepherd homes,
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining,
With their bright hearth-fires, midst the twilight glooms,
From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shining—
A land of legends and wild songs, entwining
Their memory with all memories loved and blest—
In such a land there dwells a power, combining
The strength of many a calm but fearless breast;
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its rest!

VI.

A sound went up—the wave’s dark sleep was broken—
On Uri’s lake was heard a midnight oar—
Of man’s brief course a troubled moment’s token
Th’ eternal waters to their barriers bore;
And then their gloom a flashing image wore
Of torch-fires streaming out o’er crag and wood,
And the wild falcon’s wing was heard to soar
In startled haste—and by that moonlight flood,
A band of patriot men on Grutli’s verdure stood.

VII.

They stood in arms: the wolf-spear and the bow
Had waged their war on things of mountain race;
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe?
—Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase,
True hearts in fight, were gather’d on that place
Of secret council. Not for fame or spoil
So met those men in Heaven’s majestic face:
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil,
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil.

VIII.

O’er their low pastoral valleys might the tide
Of years have flow’d, and still, from sire to son,
Their names and records on the green earth died,
As cottage lamps, expiring one by one
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun
To hush all sound. But silent on its height,
The snow mass, full of death, while ages run
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light,
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding might.

IX.

So were they roused. Th’ invading step had pass’d
Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door,
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind’s blast,
Could bar Oppression from their home no more.
Why, what had she to do where all things wore
Wild grandeur’s impress? In the storm’s free way,
How dared she lift her pageant crest before
Th’ enduring and magnificent array
Of sovereign Alps, that wing’d their eagles with the day?

X.

This might not long be borne: the tameless hills
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling,
Fraught with His name whose awful presence fills
Their deep lone places, and for ever telling
That He hath made man free! and they, whose dwelling
Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear;
The weight of sufferance from their hearts repelling,
They rose—the forester—the mountaineer—
Oh! what hath earth more strong than the good peasant spear?

XI.

Sacred be Grutli’s field! Their vigil keeping
Through many a blue and starry summer night—
There, while the sons of happier lands were sleeping,
Had those brave Switzers met; and in the sight
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might
To gird the oppress’d, had given their deep thoughts way,
And braced their spirits for the patriot fight,
With lovely images of homes that lay
Bower’d midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent spray.

XII.

Now had endurance reach’d its bounds! They came
With courage set in each bright earnest eye,
The day, the signal, and the hour to name,
When they should gather on their hills to die,
Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry
For the land’s freedom. ’Twas a scene combining
All glory in itself—the solemn sky,
The stars, the waves their soften’d light enshrining,
And man’s high soul supreme o’er mighty Nature shining.

XIII.

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien,
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low—
As if the spirit of the hour and scene,
With the woods’ whisper and the waves’ sweet flow,
Had temper’d in their thoughtful hearts the glow
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow,
E’en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.

XIV.

And three, that seem’d as chieftains of the band,
Were gather’d in the midst on that lone shore
By Uri’s lake. A father of the land,
One on his brow the silent record wore
Of many days, whose shadows had pass’d o’er
His path among the hills, and quench’d the dreams
Of youth with sorrow. Yet from memory’s lore
Still his life’s evening drew its loveliest gleams,
For he had walk’d with God, beside the mountain streams.

XV.

And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well
To their last pillow silently have gone,
As melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tell
How life may task the spirit? He was one
Who from its morn a freeman’s work had done,
And reap’d his harvest, and his vintage press’d,
Fearless of wrong; and now, at set of sun,
He bow’d not to his years, for on the breast
Of a still chainless land he deem’d it much to rest.

XVI.

But for such holy rest strong hands must toil,
Strong hearts endure! By that pale elder’s side,
Stood one that seem’d a monarch of the soil,
Serene and stately in his manhood’s pride—
Werner, the brave and true! If men have died
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep,
He was a mate for such. The voice that cried
Within his breast, “Arise!” came still and deep
From his far home, that smiled e’en then in moonlight sleep.

XVII.

It was a home to die for! As it rose
Through its vine foliage, sending forth a sound
Of mirthful childhood, o’er the green repose
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round;
And he, whose life to that sweet spot was bound,
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye,
And set his free step firmer on the ground,
When o’er his soul its melodies went by,
As, through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy.

XVIII.

But who was he that on his hunting-spear
Lean’d, with a prouder and more fiery bearing?
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear,
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing
That which they may not tame—a soul declaring
War against earth’s oppressors. Midst that throng
Of other mould he seem’d, and loftier daring,
One whose blood swept high impulses along,
One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike song—

XIX.

A memory on the mountains!—one to stand,
When the hills echo’d with the deepening swell
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land,
And in some rock defile, or savage dell,
Array her peasant children to repel
Th’ invader, sending arrows for his chains!
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell,
Her banner with a smile—for through his veins
The joy of danger flow’d, as torrents to the plains.

XX.

There was at times a wildness in the light
Of his quick-flashing eye; a something born
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright,
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn!
It well might be!—Young Erni’s step had worn
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps,
And track’d the lynx above the clouds of morn,
And follow’d where the flying chamois leaps
Across the dark blue rifts, th’ unfathom’d glacier deeps.

XXI.

He was a creature of the Alpine sky,
A being whose bright spirit had been fed
Midst the crown’d heights of joy and liberty,
And thoughts of power. He knew each path which led
To the rock’s treasure caves, whose crystal shed
Soft light o’er secret fountains. At the tone
Of his loud horn the Lammer-Geyer had spread
A startled wing—for oft that peal had blown
Where the free cataract’s voice was wont to sound alone.

XXII.

His step had track’d the waste, his soul had stirr’d
The ancient solitudes—his voice had told
Of wrongs to call down heaven. That tale was heard
In Hasli’s dales, and where the shepherds’ fold
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold
On the bleak Oberland; and where the light
Of day’s last footsteps bathes in burning gold
Great Righi’s cliffs; and where Mount Pilate’s height
Casts o’er his glassy lake the darkness of his might.

XXIII.

Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter pass’d,
And, from the bosom of the wilderness,
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast
The weight of bondage down—and bright and fast,
As the clear waters, joyously and free,
Burst from the desert rock, it rush’d at last,
Through the far valleys; till the patriot three
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest-Sea.

XXIV.

They link’d their hands, they pledged their stainless faith
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven,
They bound their hearts to suffering and to death,
With the severe and solemn transport given
To bless such vows. How nobly man had striven,
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they knew,
And call’d upon their God, whose arm had riven
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt’s might o’erthrew.

XXV.

They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys lay
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted
Into the bright mid air, had caught from day
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted,
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted,
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born—
So far was heard the blast of freedom’s echoing horn!

XXVI.

The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came rending
The frozen stillness which around them hung;
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending
Gave answer, till the sky’s blue hollow rung;
And the flame-signals through the midnight sprung
From the Surennen rocks, like banners streaming
To the far Seelisberg; whence light was flung
On Grutli’s field, till all the red lake gleaming
Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour seeming.

XXVII.

And the winds toss’d each summit’s blazing crest,
As a host’s plumage; and the giant pines,
Fell’d where they waved o’er crag and eagle’s nest,
Heap’d up the flames. The clouds grew fiery signs,
As o’er a city’s burning towers and shrines,
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown’d and bright,
In Werner’s dwelling flow’d; through leafless vines
From Walter’s hearth stream’d forth the festive light,
And Erni’s blind old sire gave thanks to heaven that night.

XXVIII.

Then on the silence of the snows there lay
A Sabbath’s quiet sunshine—and its bell
Fill’d the hush’d air awhile, with lonely sway;
For the stream’s voice was chain’d by winter’s spell,
The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and dell
Rang forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee
Peal’d from the mountain churches, with a swell
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea—
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps were free!