XI.
The palm-tree that grows on the rock to this day, Feels its leaf growing yellow, its slight stem decay, In the blasting and ponderous air; These towns are no more! but to mirror their past, O'er their embers a cold lake spread far and spread fast, With smoke like a furnace, lies there!
J.N. FAZAKERLEY
PIRATES' SONG.
_("Nous emmenions en esclavage.")_
[VIII., March, 1828.]
We're bearing fivescore Christian dogs To serve the cruel drivers: Some are fair beauties gently born, And some rough coral-divers. We hardy skimmers of the sea Are lucky in each sally, And, eighty strong, we send along The dreaded Pirate Galley.
A nunnery was spied ashore, We lowered away the cutter, And, landing, seized the youngest nun Ere she a cry could utter; Beside the creek, deaf to our oars, She slumbered in green alley, As, eighty strong, we sent along The dreaded Pirate Galley.
"Be silent, darling, you must come-- The wind is off shore blowing; You only change your prison dull For one that's splendid, glowing! His Highness doats on milky cheeks, So do not make us dally"-- We, eighty strong, who send along The dreaded Pirate Galley.
She sought to flee back to her cell, And called us each a devil! We dare do aught becomes Old Scratch, But like a treatment civil, So, spite of buffet, prayers, and calls-- Too late her friends to rally-- We, eighty strong, bore her along Unto the Pirate Galley.
The fairer for her tears profuse, As dews refresh the flower, She is well worth three purses full, And will adorn the bower-- For vain her vow to pine and die Thus torn from her dear valley: She reigns, and we still row along The dreaded Pirate Galley.
THE TURKISH CAPTIVE.
_("Si je n'était captive.")_
[IX., July, 1828.]
Oh! were I not a captive, I should love this fair countree; Those fields with maize abounding, This ever-plaintive sea: I'd love those stars unnumbered, If, passing in the shade, Beneath our walls I saw not The spahi's sparkling blade.
I am no Tartar maiden That a blackamoor of price Should tune my lute and hold to me My glass of sherbet-ice. Far from these haunts of vices, In my dear countree, we With sweethearts in the even May chat and wander free.
But still I love this climate, Where never wintry breeze Invades, with chilly murmur, These open lattices; Where rain is warm in summer, And the insect glossy green, Most like a living emerald, Shines 'mid the leafy screen.
With her chapelles fair Smyrna-- A gay princess is she! Still, at her summons, round her Unfading spring ye see. And, as in beauteous vases, Bright groups of flowers repose, So, in her gulfs are lying Her archipelagoes.
I love these tall red turrets; These standards brave unrolled; And, like an infant's playthings, These houses decked with gold. I love forsooth these reveries, Though sandstorms make me pant, Voluptuously swaying Upon an elephant.
Here in this fairy palace, Full of such melodies, Methinks I hear deep murmurs That in the deserts rise; Soft mingling with the music The Genii's voices pour, Amid the air, unceasing, Around us evermore.
I love the burning odors This glowing region gives; And, round each gilded lattice, The trembling, wreathing leaves; And, 'neath the bending palm-tree, The gayly gushing spring; And on the snow-white minaret, The stork with snowier wing.
I love on mossy couch to sing A Spanish roundelay, And see my sweet companions Around commingling gay,-- A roving band, light-hearted, In frolicsome array,-- Who 'neath the screening parasols Dance down the merry day. But more than all enchanting At night, it is to me, To sit, where winds are sighing, Lone, musing by the sea; And, on its surface gazing, To mark the moon so fair, Her silver fan outspreading, In trembling radiance there.
W.D., _Tait's Edin. Magazine_
MOONLIGHT ON THE BOSPHORUS.
_("La lune était sereine.")_
[X., September, 1828.]
Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave; At the cool casement, to the evening breeze flung wide, Leans the Sultana, and delights to watch the tide, With surge of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets lave.
From her hand, as it falls, vibrates the light guitar. She listens--hark! that sound that echoes dull and low. Is it the beat upon the Archipelago Of some long galley's oar, from Scio bound afar?
Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by one, Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls? Is it some hovering sprite with whistling scream that hurls Down to the deep from yon old tower a loosened stone?
Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio? 'Tis no dark cormorants that on the ripple float, 'Tis no dull plume of stone--no oars of Turkish boat, With measured beat along the water creeping slow.
'Tis heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless dusky slaves; And could you dare to sound the depths of yon dark tide, Something like human form would stir within its side. Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave.
JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
THE VEIL.
_("Qu'avez-vous, mes frères?")_
[XI., September, 18288.]
"Have you prayed tonight, Desdemona?"
THE SISTER
What has happened, my brothers? Your spirit to-day Some secret sorrow damps There's a cloud on your brow. What has happened? Oh, say, For your eyeballs glare out with a sinister ray Like the light of funeral lamps. And the blades of your poniards are half unsheathed In your belt--and ye frown on me! There's a woe untold, there's a pang unbreathed In your bosom, my brothers three!
ELDEST BROTHER.
Gulnara, make answer! Hast thou, since the dawn, To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn?
THE SISTER.
As I came, oh, my brother! at noon--from the bath-- As I came--it was noon, my lords-- And your sister had then, as she constantly hath, Drawn her veil close around her, aware that the path Is beset by these foreign hordes. But the weight of the noonday's sultry hour Near the mosque was so oppressive That--forgetting a moment the eye of the Giaour-- I yielded to th' heat excessive.
SECOND BROTHER.
Gulnara, make answer! Whom, then, hast thou seen, In a turban of white and a caftan of green?
THE SISTER.
Nay, _he_ might have been there; but I muflled me so, He could scarcely have seen my figure.-- But why to your sister thus dark do you grow? What words to yourselves do you mutter thus low, Of "blood" and "an intriguer"? Oh! ye cannot of murder bring down the red guilt On your souls, my brothers, surely! Though I fear--from the hands that are chafing the hilt, And the hints you give obscurely.
THIRD BROTHER.
Gulnara, this evening when sank the red sun, Didst thou mark how like blood in descending it shone?
THE SISTER.
Mercy! Allah! have pity! oh, spare! See! I cling to your knees repenting! Kind brothers, forgive me! for mercy, forbear! Be appeased at the cry of a sister's despair, For our mother's sake relenting. O God! must I die? They are deaf to my cries! Their sister's life-blood shedding; They have stabbed me each one--I faint--o'er my eyes A _veil of Death_ is spreading!
THE BROTHERS.
Gulnara, farewell! take _that_ veil; 'tis the gift Of thy brothers--a veil thou wilt never lift!
"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY).
THE FAVORITE SULTANA.
_("N'ai-je pas pour toi, belle juive.")_
[XII., Oct. 27, 1828.]
To please you, Jewess, jewel! I have thinned my harem out! Must every flirting of your fan Presage a dying shout?
Grace for the damsels tender Who have fear to hear your laugh, For seldom gladness gilds your lips But blood you mean to quaff.
In jealousy so zealous, Never was there woman worse; You'd have no roses but those grown Above some buried corse.
Am I not pinioned firmly? Why be angered if the door Repulses fifty suing maids Who vainly there implore?
Let them live on--to envy My own empress of the world, To whom all Stamboul like a dog Lies at the slippers curled.
To you my heroes lower Those scarred ensigns none have cowed; To you their turbans are depressed That elsewhere march so proud.
To you Bassora offers Her respect, and Trebizonde Her carpets richly wrought, and spice And gems, of which you're fond.
To you the Cyprus temples Dare not bar or close the doors; For you the mighty Danube sends The choicest of its stores.
Fear you the Grecian maidens, Pallid lilies of the isles? Or the scorching-eyed sand-rover From Baalbec's massy piles?
Compared with yours, oh, daughter Of King Solomon the grand, What are round ebon bosoms, High brows from Hellas' strand?
You're neither blanched nor blackened, For your tint of olive's clear; Yours are lips of ripest cherry, You are straight as Arab spear.
Hence, launch no longer lightning On these paltry slaves of ours. Why should your flow of tears be matched By their mean life-blood showers?
Think only of our banquets Brought and served by charming girls, For beauties sultans must adorn As dagger-hilts the pearls.
THE PASHA AND THE DERVISH.
_("Un jour Ali passait.")_
[XIII, Nov. 8, 1828.]
Ali came riding by--the highest head Bent to the dust, o'ercharged with dread, Whilst "God be praised!" all cried; But through the throng one dervish pressed, Aged and bent, who dared arrest The pasha in his pride.
"Ali Tepelini, light of all light, Who hold'st the Divan's upper seat by right, Whose fame Fame's trump hath burst-- Thou art the master of unnumbered hosts, Shade of the Sultan--yet he only boasts In thee a dog accurst!
"An unseen tomb-torch flickers on thy path, Whilst, as from vial full, thy spare-naught wrath Splashes this trembling race: These are thy grass as thou their trenchant scythes Cleaving their neck as 'twere a willow withe-- Their blood none can efface.
"But ends thy tether! for Janina makes A grave for thee where every turret quakes, And thou shalt drop below To where the spirits, to a tree enchained, Will clutch thee, there to be 'mid them retained For all to-come in woe!
"Or if, by happy chance, thy soul might flee Thy victims, after, thou shouldst surely see And hear thy crimes relate; Streaked with the guileless gore drained from their veins, Greater in number than the reigns on reigns Thou hopedst for thy state.
"This so will be! and neither fleet nor fort Can stay or aid thee as the deathly port Receives thy harried frame! Though, like the cunning Hebrew knave of old, To cheat the angel black, thou didst enfold In altered guise thy name."
Ali deemed anchorite or saint a pawn-- The crater of his blunderbuss did yawn, Sword, dagger hung at ease: But he had let the holy man revile, Though clouds o'erswept his brow; then, with a smile, He tossed him his pelisse.
THE LOST BATTLE.
_("Allah! qui me rendra-")_
[XVI., May, 1828.]
Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array? My emirs and my cavalry that shook the earth to-day; My tent, my wide-extending camp, all dazzling to the sight, Whose watchfires, kindled numberless beneath the brow of night, Seemed oft unto the sentinel that watched the midnight hours, As heaven along the sombre hill had rained its stars in showers? Where are my beys so gorgeous, in their light pelisses gay, And where my fierce Timariot bands, so fearless in the fray; My dauntless khans, my spahis brave, swift thunderbolts of war; My sunburnt Bedouins, trooping from the Pyramids afar, Who laughed to see the laboring hind stand terrified at gaze, And urged their desert horses on amid the ripening maize? These horses with their fiery eyes, their slight untiring feet, That flew along the fields of corn like grasshoppers so fleet-- What! to behold again no more, loud charging o'er the plain, Their squadrons, in the hostile shot diminished all in vain, Burst grandly on the heavy squares, like clouds that bear the storms, Enveloping in lightning fires the dark resisting swarms! Oh! they are dead! their housings bright are trailed amid their gore; Dark blood is on their manes and sides, all deeply clotted o'er; All vainly now the spur would strike these cold and rounded flanks, To wake them to their wonted speed amid the rapid ranks: Here the bold riders red and stark upon the sands lie down, Who in their friendly shadows slept throughout the halt at noon. Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array? See where it straggles 'long the fields for leagues on leagues away, Like riches from a spendthrift's hand flung prodigal to earth. Lo! steed and rider;--Tartar chiefs or of Arabian birth, Their turbans and their cruel course, their banners and their cries, Seem now as if a troubled dream had passed before mine eyes-- My valiant warriors and their steeds, thus doomed to fall and bleed! Their voices rouse no echo now, their footsteps have no speed; They sleep, and have forgot at last the sabre and the bit-- Yon vale, with all the corpses heaped, seems one wide charnel-pit. Long shall the evil omen rest upon this plain of dread-- To-night, the taint of solemn blood; to-morrow, of the dead. Alas! 'tis but a shadow now, that noble armament! How terribly they strove, and struck from morn to eve unspent, Amid the fatal fiery ring, enamoured of the fight! Now o'er the dim horizon sinks the peaceful pall of night: The brave have nobly done their work, and calmly sleep at last. The crows begin, and o'er the dead are gathering dark and fast; Already through their feathers black they pass their eager beaks. Forth from the forest's distant depth, from bald and barren peaks, They congregate in hungry flocks and rend their gory prey. Woe to that flaunting army's pride, so vaunting yesterday! That formidable host, alas! is coldly nerveless now To drive the vulture from his gorge, or scare the carrion crow. Were now that host again mine own, with banner broad unfurled, With it I would advance and win the empire of the world. Monarchs to it should yield their realms and veil their haughty brows; My sister it should ever be, my lady and my spouse. Oh! what will unrestoring Death, that jealous tyrant lord, Do with the brave departed souls that cannot swing a sword? Why turned the balls aside from me? Why struck no hostile hand My head within its turban green upon the ruddy sand? I stood all potent yesterday; my bravest captains three, All stirless in their tigered selle, magnificent to see, Hailed as before my gilded tent rose flowing to the gales, Shorn from the tameless desert steeds, three dark and tossing tails. But yesterday a hundred drums were heard when I went by; Full forty agas turned their looks respectful on mine eye, And trembled with contracted brows within their hall of state. Instead of heavy catapults, of slow unwieldy weight, I had bright cannons rolling on oak wheels in threatening tiers, And calm and steady by their sides marched English cannoniers. But yesterday, and I had towns, and castles strong and high, And Greeks in thousands, for the base and merciless to buy. But yesterday, and arsenals and harems were my own; While now, defeated and proscribed, deserted and alone, I flee away, a fugitive, and of my former power, Allah! I have not now at least one battlemented tower. And must he fly--the grand vizier! the pasha of three tails! O'er the horizon's bounding hills, where distant vision fails, All stealthily, with eyes on earth, and shrinking from the sight, As a nocturnal robber holds his dark and breathless flight, And thinks he sees the gibbet spread its arms in solemn wrath, In every tree that dimly throws its shadow on his path!
Thus, after his defeat, pale Reschid speaks. Among the dead we mourned a thousand Greeks. Lone from the field the Pasha fled afar, And, musing, wiped his reeking scimitar; His two dead steeds upon the sands were flung, And on their sides their empty stirrups hung.
W.D., _Bentley's Miscellany_, 1839.
THE GREEK BOY.
_("Les Turcs ont passés là.")_
[XVIII., June 10, 1828.]
All is a ruin where rage knew no bounds: Chio is levelled, and loathed by the hounds, For shivered yest'reen was her lance; Sulphurous vapors envenom the place Where her true beauties of Beauty's true race Were lately linked close in the dance.
Dark is the desert, with one single soul; Cerulean eyes! whence the burning tears roll In anguish of uttermost shame, Under the shadow of one shrub of May, Splashed still with ruddy drops, bent in decay Where fiercely the hand of Lust came.
"Soft and sweet urchin, still red with the lash Of rein and of scabbard of wild Kuzzilbash, What lack you for changing your sob-- If not unto laughter beseeming a child-- To utterance milder, though they have defiled The graves which they shrank not to rob?
"Would'st thou a trinket, a flower, or scarf, Would'st thou have silver? I'm ready with half These sequins a-shine in the sun! Still more have I money--if you'll but speak!" He spoke: and furious the cry of the Greek, "Oh, give me your dagger and gun!"
ZARA, THE BATHER
_("Sara, belle d'indolence.")_
[XIX., August, 1828.]
In a swinging hammock lying, Lightly flying, Zara, lovely indolent, O'er a fountain's crystal wave There to lave Her young beauty--see her bent.
As she leans, so sweet and soft, Flitting oft, O'er the mirror to and fro, Seems that airy floating bat, Like a feather From some sea-gull's wing of snow.
Every time the frail boat laden With the maiden Skims the water in its flight, Starting from its trembling sheen, Swift are seen A white foot and neck so white.
As that lithe foot's timid tips Quick she dips, Passing, in the rippling pool, (Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!) Frolic, she Laughs to feel the pleasant cool.
Here displayed, but half concealed-- Half revealed, Each bright charm shall you behold, In her innocence emerging, As a-verging On the wave her hands grow cold.
For no star howe'er divine Has the shine Of a maid's pure loveliness, Frightened if a leaf but quivers As she shivers, Veiled with naught but dripping trees.
By the happy breezes fanned See her stand,-- Blushing like a living rose, On her bosom swelling high If a fly Dare to seek a sweet repose.
In those eyes which maiden pride Fain would hide, Mark how passion's lightnings sleep! And their glance is brighter far Than the star Brightest in heaven's bluest deep.
O'er her limbs the glittering current In soft torrent Rains adown the gentle girl, As if, drop by drop, should fall, One and all From her necklace every pearl.
Lengthening still the reckless pleasure At her leisure, Care-free Zara ever slow As the hammock floats and swings Smiles and sings, To herself, so sweet and low.
"Oh, were I a capitana, Or sultana, Amber should be always mixt In my bath of jewelled stone, Near my throne, Griffins twain of gold betwixt.
"Then my hammock should be silk, White as milk; And, more soft than down of dove, Velvet cushions where I sit Should emit Perfumes that inspire love.
"Then should I, no danger near, Free from fear, Revel in my garden's stream; Nor amid the shadows deep Dread the peep, Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam.
"He who thus would play the spy, On the die For such sight his head must throw; In his blood the sabre naked Would be slakèd, Of my slaves of ebon brow.
"Then my rich robes trailing show As I go, None to chide should be so bold; And upon my sandals fine How should shine Rubies worked in cloth-of-gold!"
Fancying herself a queen, All unseen, Thus vibrating in delight; In her indolent coquetting Quite forgetting How the hours wing their flight.
As she lists the showery tinkling Of the sprinkling By her wanton curvets made; Never pauses she to think Of the brink Where her wrapper white is laid.
To the harvest-fields the while, In long file, Speed her sisters' lively band, Like a flock of birds in flight Streaming light, Dancing onward hand in hand.
And they're singing, every one, As they run This the burden of their lay: "Fie upon such idleness! Not to dress Earlier on harvest-day!"
JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
EXPECTATION.
_("Moune, écureuil.")_
[xx.]
Squirrel, mount yon oak so high, To its twig that next the sky Bends and trembles as a flower! Strain, O stork, thy pinion well,-- From thy nest 'neath old church-bell, Mount to yon tall citadel, And its tallest donjon tower! To your mountain, eagle old, Mount, whose brow so white and cold, Kisses the last ray of even! And, O thou that lov'st to mark Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark, Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark-- Joyous lark, O mount to heaven! And now say, from topmost bough, Towering shaft, and peak of snow, And heaven's arch--O, can you see One white plume that like a star, Streams along the plain afar, And a steed that from the war Bears my lover back to me?
JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
THE LOVER'S WISH.
_("Si j'étais la feuille.")_
[XXII., September, 1828.]
Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West, His course through the forest uncaring; To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast In a pendulous cradle is bearing.
All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste, As the dewdrops upon me were glancing; When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste, And round her the breezes are dancing.
On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush Thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver; Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush, And the murmuring fall of the river.
By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane, To catch the sweet breath of the roses; Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain 'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.
Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky, Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring; Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh, And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.
On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way, A charm that would lead to the bower; Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day, At the dawn and the vesper hour.
Then hovering down on her brow would I light, 'Midst her golden tresses entwining; That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright, And the sunbeams upon it shining.
A single frail gem on her beautiful head, I should sit in the golden glory; And prouder I'd be than the diadem spread Round the brow of kings famous in story.
V., _Eton Observer_.
THE SACKING OF THE CITY.
_("La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!")_
[XXIII., November, 1825.]
Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume, The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks; Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom, Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks.
Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high, Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel; Prostrate, the palaces, huge tombs of fire, lie, While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel!
Died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms, O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight; With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms, At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.
Lo! where the city lies mantled in pall of death; Lo! where thy mighty hand hath passed, all things must bend! Priests prayed, the sword estopped blaspheming breath, Vainly their cheating book for shield did they extend.
Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian-kind, To kiss thy sandall'd foot, O King, thy people kneel, And golden circlets to thy victor-ankle bind.
JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
NOORMAHAL THE FAIR.[1]
_("Entre deux rocs d'un noir d'ébène.")_
[XXVII., November, 1828.]
Between two ebon rocks Behold yon sombre den, Where brambles bristle like the locks Of wool between the horns of scapegoat banned by men!
Remote in ruddy fog Still hear the tiger growl At the lion and stripèd dog That prowl with rusty throats to taunt and roar and howl;
Whilst other monsters fast The hissing basilisk; The hippopotamus so vast, And the boa with waking appetite made brisk!
The orfrey showing tongue, The fly in stinging mood, The elephant that crushes strong And elastic bamboos an the scorpion's brood;
And the men of the trees With their families fierce, Till there is not one scorching breeze But brings here its venom--its horror to pierce--
Yet, rather there be lone, 'Mid all those horrors there, Than hear the sickly honeyed tone And see the swimming eyes of Noormahal the Fair!
[Footnote 1: Noormahal (Arabic) the light of the house; some of the Orientals deem fair hair and complexion a beauty.]
THE DJINNS.
_("Murs, ville et port.")_
[XXVIII., Aug. 28, 1828.]
Town, tower, Shore, deep, Where lower Cliff's steep; Waves gray, Where play Winds gay, All sleep.
Hark! a sound, Far and slight, Breathes around On the night High and higher, Nigh and nigher, Like a fire, Roaring, bright.
Now, on 'tis sweeping With rattling beat, Like dwarf imp leaping In gallop fleet He flies, he prances, In frolic fancies, On wave-crest dances With pattering feet.
Hark, the rising swell, With each new burst! Like the tolling bell Of a convent curst; Like the billowy roar On a storm-lashed shore,-- Now hushed, but once more Maddening to its worst.
O God! the deadly sound Of the Djinn's fearful cry! Quick, 'neath the spiral round Of the deep staircase fly! See, see our lamplight fade! And of the balustrade Mounts, mounts the circling shade Up to the ceiling high!
'Tis the Djinns' wild streaming swarm Whistling in their tempest flight; Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm, Like a pine flame crackling bright. Swift though heavy, lo! their crowd Through the heavens rushing loud Like a livid thunder-cloud With its bolt of fiery might!
Ho! they are on us, close without! Shut tight the shelter where we lie! With hideous din the monster rout, Dragon and vampire, fill the sky! The loosened rafter overhead Trembles and bends like quivering reed; Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly! Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek! The horrid troop before the tempest tossed-- O Heaven!--descends my lowly roof to seek:
Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host. Totters the house as though, like dry leaf shorn From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne, Up from its deep foundations it were torn To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost!
O Prophet! if thy hand but now Save from these hellish things, A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow, Laden with pious offerings. Bid their hot breath its fiery rain Stream on the faithful's door in vain; Vainly upon my blackened pane Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings!
They have passed!--and their wild legion Cease to thunder at my door; Fleeting through night's rayless region, Hither they return no more. Clanking chains and sounds of woe Fill the forests as they go; And the tall oaks cower low, Bent their flaming light before.
On! on! the storm of wings Bears far the fiery fear, Till scarce the breeze now brings Dim murmurings to the ear; Like locusts' humming hail, Or thrash of tiny flail Plied by the fitful gale On some old roof-tree sere.
Fainter now are borne Feeble mutterings still; As when Arab horn Swells its magic peal, Shoreward o'er the deep Fairy voices sweep, And the infant's sleep Golden visions fill.
Each deadly Djinn, Dark child of fright, Of death and sin, Speeds in wild flight. Hark, the dull moan, Like the deep tone Of Ocean's groan, Afar, by night!
More and more Fades it slow, As on shore Ripples flow,-- As the plaint Far and faint Of a saint Murmured low.
Hark! hist! Around, I list! The bounds Of space All trace Efface Of sound.
JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
THE OBDURATE BEAUTY.
_("A Juana la Grenadine!")_
[XXIX., October, 1843.]
To Juana ever gay, Sultan Achmet spoke one day "Lo, the realms that kneel to own Homage to my sword and crown All I'd freely cast away, Maiden dear, for thee alone."
"Be a Christian, noble king! For it were a grievous thing: Love to seek and find too well In the arms of infidel. Spain with cry of shame would ring, If from honor faithful fell."
"By these pearls whose spotless chain, Oh, my gentle sovereign, Clasps thy neck of ivory, Aught thou askest I will be, If that necklace pure of stain Thou wilt give for rosary."
JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.
DON RODRIGO.
A MOORISH BALLAD.
_("Don Roderique est à la chasse.")_
[XXX., May, 1828.]
Unto the chase Rodrigo's gone, With neither lance nor buckler; A baleful light his eyes outshone-- To pity he's no truckler.
He follows not the royal stag, But, full of fiery hating, Beside the way one sees him lag, Impatient at the waiting.
He longs his nephew's blood to spill, Who 'scaped (the young Mudarra) That trap he made and laid to kill The seven sons of Lara.
Along the road--at last, no balk-- A youth looms on a jennet; He rises like a sparrow-hawk About to seize a linnet.
"What ho!" "Who calls?" "Art Christian knight, Or basely born and boorish, Or yet that thing I still more slight-- The spawn of some dog Moorish?
"I seek the by-born spawn of one I e'er renounce as brother-- Who chose to make his latest son Caress a Moor as mother.
"I've sought that cub in every hole, 'Midland, and coast, and islet, For he's the thief who came and stole Our sheathless jewelled stilet."
"If you well know the poniard worn Without edge-dulling cover-- Look on it now--here, plain, upborne! And further be no rover.
"Tis I--as sure as you're abhorred Rodrigo--cruel slayer, 'Tis I am Vengeance, and your lord, Who bids you crouch in prayer!
"I shall not grant the least delay-- Use what you have, defending, I'll send you on that darksome way Your victims late were wending.
"And if I wore this, with its crest-- Our seal with gems enwreathing-- In open air--'twas in your breast To seek its fated sheathing!"
CORNFLOWERS.
_("Tandis que l'étoile inodore.")_
[XXXII.]
While bright but scentless azure stars Be-gem the golden corn, And spangle with their skyey tint The furrows not yet shorn; While still the pure white tufts of May Ape each a snowy ball,-- Away, ye merry maids, and haste To gather ere they fall!
Nowhere the sun of Spain outshines Upon a fairer town Than Peñafiel, or endows More richly farming clown; Nowhere a broader square reflects Such brilliant mansions, tall,-- Away, ye merry maids, etc.
Nowhere a statelier abbey rears Dome huger o'er a shrine, Though seek ye from old Rome itself To even Seville fine. Here countless pilgrims come to pray And promenade the Mall,-- Away, ye merry maids, etc.
Where glide the girls more joyfully Than ours who dance at dusk, With roses white upon their brows, With waists that scorn the busk? Mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes-- Compared with these, how small! Away, ye merry maids, etc.
A blossom in a city lane, Alizia was our pride, And oft the blundering bee, deceived, Came buzzing to her side-- But, oh! for one that felt the sting, And found, 'neath honey, gall-- Away, ye merry maids, etc.
Young, haughty, from still hotter lands, A stranger hither came-- Was he a Moor or African, Or Murcian known to fame? None knew--least, she--or false or true, The name by which to call. Away, ye merry maids, etc.
Alizia asked not his degree, She saw him but as Love, And through Xarama's vale they strayed, And tarried in the grove,-- Oh! curses on that fatal eve, And on that leafy hall! Away, ye merry maids, etc.
The darkened city breathed no more; The moon was mantled long, Till towers thrust the cloudy cloak Upon the steeples' throng; The crossway Christ, in ivy draped, Shrank, grieving, 'neath the pall,-- Away, ye merry maids, etc.
But while, alone, they kept the shade, The other dark-eyed dears Were murmuring on the stifling air Their jealous threats and fears; Alizia was so blamed, that time, Unheeded rang the call: Away, ye merry maids, etc.
Although, above, the hawk describes The circle round the lark, It sleeps, unconscious, and our lass Had eyes but for her spark-- A spark?--a sun! 'Twas Juan, King! Who wears our coronal,-- Away, ye merry maids, etc.
A love so far above one's state Ends sadly. Came a black And guarded palanquin to bear The girl that ne'er comes back; By royal writ, some nunnery Still shields her from us all Away, ye merry maids, and haste To gather ere they fall!
H. L. WILLIAMS
MAZEPPA.
_("Ainsi, lorsqu'un mortel!")_
[XXXIV., May, 1828.]
As when a mortal--Genius' prize, alack! Is, living, bound upon thy fatal back, Thou reinless racing steed! In vain he writhes, mere cloud upon a star, Thou bearest him as went Mazeppa, far Out of the flow'ry mead,-- So--though thou speed'st implacable, (like him, Spent, pallid, torn, bruised, weary, sore and dim, As if each stride the nearer bring Him to the grave)--when comes _the time_, After the fall, he rises--KING!
H.L. WILLIAMS
THE DANUBE IN WRATH.
_("Quoi! ne pouvez-vous vivre ensemble?")_
[XXXV., June, 1828.]
The River Deity upbraids his Daughters, the contributary Streams:--
Ye daughters mine! will naught abate Your fierce interminable hate? Still am I doomed to rue the fate That such unfriendly neighbors made? The while ye might, in peaceful cheer, Mirror upon your waters clear, Semlin! thy Gothic steeples dear, And thy bright minarets, Belgrade!
_Fraser's Magazine_
OLD OCEAN.
_("J'étais seul près des flots.")_
[XXXVII., September 5, 1828.]
I stood by the waves, while the stars soared in sight, Not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright; Scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eye; And the woods, and the hills, and all nature around, Seem'd to question with moody, mysterious sound, The waves, and the pure stars on high. And the clear constellations, that infinite throng, While thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song, Replying, bowed meekly their diamond-blaze-- And the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest, Chorus'd forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest "Creator! we bless thee and praise!"
R.C. ELLWOOD
MY NAPOLEON.
_("Toujours lui! lui partout!")_
[XL., December, 1828.]
Above all others, everywhere I see His image cold or burning! My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free The thoughts within me yearning. My quivering lips pour forth the words That cluster in his name of glory-- The star gigantic with its rays of swords Whose gleams irradiate all modern story.
I see his finger pointing where the shell Should fall to slay most rabble, And save foul regicides; or strike the knell Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble. A Consul then, o'er young but proud, With midnight poring thinned, and sallow, But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud, And round pale face and lank locks form the halo.
And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame Whole nations' contact urging To gain his soldiers gold and fame Oh, Sun on high emerging, Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells, Into his host of half-a-million heroes!
What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart. No weight of arms enfolded Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart Which Nature--not her journeymen--self-moulded. Let sordid jailers vex their prize; But only bends that brow to lightning, As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs Cleave through the storm and haste where France looms bright'ning.
Alone, but greater! Broke the sceptre, true! Yet lingers still some power-- In tears of woe man's metal may renew The temper of high hour; For, bating breath, e'er list the kings The pinions clipped may grow! the Eagle May burst, in frantic thirst for home, the rings And rend the Bulldog, Fox, and Bear, and Beagle!
And, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and here Eternal brightness coming! The eye so weary's freshened with a tear As rises distant drumming, And wailing cheer--they pass the pale His army mourns though still's the end hid; And from his war-stained cloak, he answers "Hail!" And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid!
H.L. WILLIAMS.
LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE.--1831.
THE PATIENCE OF THE PEOPLE.
_("Il s'est dit tant de fois.")_
[III., May, 1830.]
How often have the people said: "What's power?" Who reigns soon is dethroned? each fleeting hour Has onward borne, as in a fevered dream, Such quick reverses, like a judge supreme-- Austere but just, they contemplate the end To which the current of events must tend. Self-confidence has taught them to forbear, And in the vastness of their strength, they spare. Armed with impunity, for _one in vain_ Resists a _nation_, they let others reign.
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
DICTATED BEFORE THE RHONE GLACIER.
_("Souvent quand mon esprit riche.")_
[VII., May 18, 1828.]
When my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled, Floats on in repose round this wonderful world, Oft the sacred fire from heaven-- Mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul-- Strikes mine with its ray, and above the pole Its upward course is driven,
Like a wandering cloud, then, my eager thought Capriciously flies, to no guidance brought, With every quarter's wind; It regards from those radiant vaults on high, Earth's cities below, and again doth fly, And leaves but its shadow behind.
In the glistening gold of the morning bright, It shines, detaching some lance of light, Or, as warrior's armor rings; It forages forests that ferment around, Or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found, Where the west its radiance flings.
Or, on mountain peak, that rears its head Where snow-clad Alps around are spread, By furious gale 'tis thrown. From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away, And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray, The giant mountain's crown!
Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled, In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed; On its side the rainbow plays, And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below, The last slanting ray on its crest of snow Makes its cap like a crater to blaze.
In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light, The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight, The eagle afar is driven; The deluge but roars in despair to its feet, And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet, So near doth it rise to heaven.
Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear, Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near; On the starry vault to gaze, And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night, On th' horizon high heaving, like arches of light, Till again the sun shall blaze.
For then will the glacier with glory be graced, On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed, The morn its echoes greet; Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life, Like Chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife, When waters on waters meet.
As the spirit of poesy touches my thought, It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought, From earth, with the waters of pain. As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends, These fly to the heavens--their course never ends, But descend to the ocean again.
_Author of "Critical Essays."_
THE POET'S LOVE FOR LIVELINESS.
_("Moi, quelque soit le monde.")_
[XV., May 11, 1830.]
For me, whate'er my life and lot may show, Years blank with gloom or cheered by mem'ry's glow, Turmoil or peace; never be it mine, I pray, To be a dweller of the peopled earth, Save 'neath a roof alive with children's mirth Loud through the livelong day.
So, if my hap it be to see once more Those scenes my footsteps tottered in before, An infant follower in Napoleon's train: Rodrigo's holds, Valencia and Leon, And both Castiles, and mated Aragon; Ne'er be it mine, O Spain!
To pass thy plains with cities scant between, Thy stately arches flung o'er deep ravine, Thy palaces, of Moor's or Roman's time; Or the swift makings of thy Guadalquiver, Save in those gilded cars, where bells forever Ring their melodious chime.
_Fraser's Magazine_
INFANTILE INFLUENCE.
_("Lorsque l'enfant parait.")_
[XIX., May 11, 1830.]
The child comes toddling in, and young and old With smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold, And artless, babyish joy; A playful welcome greets it through the room, The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom, To greet the happy boy.
If June with flowers has spangled all the ground, Or winter bleak the flickering hearth around Draws close the circling seat; The child still sheds a never-failing light; We call; Mamma with mingled joy and fright Watches its tottering feet.
Perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw, We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law, Or politics, or prayer; The child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play, Farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay, Philosophy and care.
When fancy wakes, but sense in heaviest sleep Lies steeped, and like the sobs of them that weep The dark stream sinks and swells, The dawn, like Pharos gleaming o'er the sea, Bursts forth, and sudden wakes the minstrelsy Of birds and chiming bells;
Thou art my dawn; my soul is as the field, Where sweetest flowers their balmy perfumes yield When breathed upon by thee, Of forest, where thy voice like zephyr plays, And morn pours out its flood of golden rays, When thy sweet smile I see.
Oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue; And little hands that evil never knew, Pure as the new-formed snow; Thy feet are still unstained by this world's mire, Thy golden locks like aureole of fire Circle thy cherub brow!
Dove of our ark, thine angel spirit flies On azure wings forth from thy beaming eyes. Though weak thine infant feet, What strange amaze this new and strange world gives To thy sweet virgin soul, that spotless lives In virgin body sweet.
Oh, gentle face, radiant with happy smile, And eager prattling tongue that knows no guile, Quick changing tears and bliss; Thy soul expands to catch this new world's light, Thy mazed eyes to drink each wondrous sight, Thy lips to taste the kiss.
Oh, God! bless me and mine, and these I love, And e'en my foes that still triumphant prove Victors by force or guile; A flowerless summer may we never see, Or nest of bird bereft, or hive of bee, Or home of infant's smile.
HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.
THE WATCHING ANGEL.
_("Dans l'alcôve sombre.")_
[XX., November, 1831.]
In the dusky nook, Near the altar laid, Sleeps the child in shadow Of his mother's bed: Softly he reposes, And his lid of roses, Closed to earth, uncloses On the heaven o'erhead.
Many a dream is with him, Fresh from fairyland, Spangled o'er with diamonds Seems the ocean sand; Suns are flaming there, Troops of ladies fair Souls of infants bear In each charming hand.
Oh, enchanting vision! Lo, a rill upsprings, And from out its bosom Comes a voice that sings Lovelier there appear Sire and sisters dear, While his mother near Plumes her new-born wings.
But a brighter vision Yet his eyes behold; Roses pied and lilies Every path enfold; Lakes delicious sleeping, Silver fishes leaping, Through the wavelets creeping Up to reeds of gold.
Slumber on, sweet infant, Slumber peacefully Thy young soul yet knows not What thy lot may be. Like dead weeds that sweep O'er the dol'rous deep, Thou art borne in sleep. What is all to thee?
Thou canst slumber by the way; Thou hast learnt to borrow Naught from study, naught from care; The cold hand of sorrow On thy brow unwrinkled yet, Where young truth and candor sit, Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ That sad word, "To-morrow!"
Innocent! thou sleepest-- See the angelic band, Who foreknow the trials That for man are planned; Seeing him unarmed, Unfearing, unalarmed, With their tears have warmed This unconscious hand.
Still they, hovering o'er him, Kiss him where he lies, Hark, he sees them weeping, "Gabriel!" he cries; "Hush!" the angel says, On his lip he lays One finger, one displays His native skies.
_Foreign Quarterly Review_
SUNSET.
_("Le soleil s'est couché")_
[XXXV. vi., April, 1829.]
The sun set this evening in masses of cloud, The storm comes to-morrow, then calm be the night, Then the Dawn in her chariot refulgent and proud, Then more nights, and still days, steps of Time in his flight. The days shall pass rapid as swifts on the wing. O'er the face of the hills, o'er the face of the seas, O'er streamlets of silver, and forests that ring With a dirge for the dead, chanted low by the breeze; The face of the waters, the brow of the mounts Deep scarred but not shrivelled, and woods tufted green, Their youth shall renew; and the rocks to the founts Shall yield what these yielded to ocean their queen. But day by day bending still lower my head, Still chilled in the sunlight, soon I shall have cast, At height of the banquet, my lot with the dead, Unmissed by creation aye joyous and vast.
TORU DUTT.
THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.
_("Ma fille, va prier!")_
[XXXVII., June, 1830.]