II.
To prayer, my child! and O, be thy first prayer For her who, many nights, with anxious care, Rocked thy first cradle; who took thy infant soul From heaven and gave it to the world; then rife With love, still drank herself the gall of life, And left for thy young lips the honeyed bowl.
And then--I need it more--then pray for me! For she is gentle, artless, true like thee;-- She has a guileless heart, brow placid still; Pity she has for all, envy for none; Gentle and wise, she patiently lives on; And she endures, nor knows who does the ill.
In culling flowers, her novice hand has ne'er Touched e'en the outer rind of vice; no snare With smiling show has lured her steps aside: On her the past has left no staining mark; Nor knows she aught of those bad thoughts which, dark Like shade on waters, o'er the spirit glide.
She knows not--nor mayest thou--the miseries In which our spirits mingle: vanities, Remorse, soul-gnawing cares, Pleasure's false show: Passions which float upon the heart like foam, Bitter remembrances which o'er us come, And Shame's red spot spread sudden o'er the brow.
I know life better! when thou'rt older grown I'll tell thee--it is needful to be known-- Of the pursuit of wealth--art, power; the cost. That it is folly, nothingness: that shame For glory is oft thrown us in the game Of Fortune; chances where the soul is lost.
The soul will change. Although of everything The cause and end be clear, yet wildering We roam through life (of vice and error full). We wander as we go; we feel the load Of doubt; and to the briars upon the road Man leaves his virtue, as the sheep its wool.
Then go, go pray for me! And as the prayer Gushes in words, be this the form they bear:-- "Lord, Lord, our Father! God, my prayer attend; Pardon! Thou art good! Pardon--Thou art great!" Let them go freely forth, fear not their fate! Where thy soul sends them, thitherward they tend.
There's nothing here below which does not find Its tendency. O'er plains the rivers wind, And reach the sea; the bee, by instinct driven, Finds out the honeyed flowers; the eagle flies To seek the sun; the vulture where death lies; The swallow to the spring; the prayer to Heaven!
And when thy voice is raised to God for me, I'm like the slave whom in the vale we see Seated to rest, his heavy load laid by; I feel refreshed--the load of faults and woe Which, groaning, I drag with me as I go, Thy wingèd prayer bears off rejoicingly!
Pray for thy father! that his dreams be bright With visitings of angel forms of light, And his soul burn as incense flaming wide, Let thy pure breath all his dark sins efface, So that his heart be like that holy place, An altar pavement each eve purified!
C., _Tait's Magazine_
LES CHANTS DU CRÉPUSCULE.--1849.
PRELUDE TO "THE SONGS OF TWILIGHT."
_("De quel non te nommer?")_
[PRELUDE, a, Oct. 20, 1835.]
How shall I note thee, line of troubled years, Which mark existence in our little span? One constant twilight in the heaven appears-- One constant twilight in the mind of man!
Creed, hope, anticipation and despair, Are but a mingling, as of day and night; The globe, surrounded by deceptive air, Is all enveloped in the same half-light.
And voice is deadened by the evening breeze, The shepherd's song, or maiden's in her bower, Mix with the rustling of the neighboring trees, Within whose foliage is lulled the power.
Yet all unites! The winding path that leads Thro' fields where verdure meets the trav'ller's eye. The river's margin, blurred with wavy reeds, The muffled anthem, echoing to the sky!
The ivy smothering the armèd tower; The dying wind that mocks the pilot's ear; The lordly equipage at midnight hour, Draws into danger in a fog the peer;
The votaries of Satan or of Jove; The wretched mendicant absorbed in woe; The din of multitudes that onward move; The voice of conscience in the heart below;
The waves, which Thou, O Lord, alone canst still; Th' elastic air; the streamlet on its way; And all that man projects, or sovereigns will; Or things inanimate might seem to say;
The strain of gondolier slow streaming by; The lively barks that o'er the waters bound; The trees that shake their foliage to the sky; The wailing voice that fills the cots around;
And man, who studies with an aching heart-- For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere, In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart-- Those doubts at length will arguments appear!
Hence, reader, know the subject of my song-- A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom, Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along, With noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb!
G.W.M. REYNOLDS
THE LAND OF FABLE.
_("L'Orient! qu'y voyez-vous, poëtes?")_
[PRELUDE, b.]
Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes, Unto the East, and say what there appears! "Alas!" the voice of Poesy replies, "Mystic's that light between the hemispheres!"
"Yes, dread's the mystic light in yonder heaven-- Dull is the gleam behind the distant hill; Like feeble flashes in the welkin driven, When the far thunder seems as it were still!
"But who can tell if that uncertain glare Be Phoebus' self, adorned with glowing vest; Or, if illusions, pregnant in the air, Have drawn our glances to the radiant west?
"Haply the sunset has deceived the sight-- Perchance 'tis evening, while we look for morning; Bewildered in the mazes of twilight, That lucid sunset may _appear_ a dawning!"
G.W.M. REYNOLDS
THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS.
_("Frères, vous avez vos journées.")_
[I., July, 1830.]
Youth of France, sons of the bold, Your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold! Our civic-laurels--honored dead! So bright your triumphs in life's morn, Your maiden-standards hacked and torn, On Austerlitz might lustre shed.
All that your fathers did re-done-- A people's rights all nobly won-- Ye tore them living from the shroud! Three glorious days bright July's gift, The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift! Oh! of such deeds be ever proud!
Of patriot sires ye lineage claim, Their souls shone in your eye of flame; Commencing the great work was theirs; On you the task to finish laid Your fruitful mother, France, who bade Flow in one day a hundred years.
E'en chilly Albion admires, The grand example Europe fires; America shall clap her hands, When swiftly o'er the Atlantic wave, Fame sounds the news of how the brave, In three bright days, have burst their bands!
With tyrant dead your fathers traced A circle wide, with battles graced; Victorious garland, red and vast! Which blooming out from home did go To Cadiz, Cairo, Rome, Moscow, From Jemappes to Montmirail passed!
Of warlike Lyceums[1] ye are The favored sons; there, deeds of war Formed e'en your plays, while o'er you shook The battle-flags in air aloft! Passing your lines, Napoleon oft Electrified you with a look!
Eagle of France! whose vivid wing Did in a hundred places fling A bloody feather, till one night The arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wave! Look up--rejoice--for now thy brave And worthy eaglets dare the light.
ELIZABETH COLLINS.
[Footnote 1: The pupils of the Polytechnic Military School distinguished themselves by their patriotic zeal and military skill, through all the troubles.]
TRIBUTE TO THE VANQUISHED.
_("Laissez-moi pleurer sur cette race.")_
[I. v.]
Oh! let me weep that race whose day is past, By exile given, by exile claimed once more, Thrice swept away upon that fatal blast. Whate'er its blame, escort we to our shore These relics of the monarchy of yore; And to th' outmarching oriflamme be paid War's honors by the flag on Fleurus' field displayed!
_Fraser's Magazine_
ANGEL OR DEMON.
_("Tu domines notre âge; ange ou démon, qu'importe!")_
[I. vii.]
Angel or demon! thou,--whether of light The minister, or darkness--still dost sway This age of ours; thine eagle's soaring flight Bears us, all breathless, after it away. The eye that from thy presence fain would stray, Shuns thee in vain; thy mighty shadow thrown Rests on all pictures of the living day, And on the threshold of our time alone, Dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, Napoleon!
Thus, when the admiring stranger's steps explore The subject-lands that 'neath Vesuvius be, Whether he wind along the enchanting shore To Portici from fair Parthenope, Or, lingering long in dreamy reverie, O'er loveliest Ischia's od'rous isle he stray, Wooed by whose breath the soft and am'rous sea Seems like some languishing sultana's lay, A voice for very sweets that scarce can win its way.
Him, whether Paestum's solemn fane detain, Shrouding his soul with meditation's power; Or at Pozzuoli, to the sprightly strain Of tarantella danced 'neath Tuscan tower, Listening, he while away the evening hour; Or wake the echoes, mournful, lone and deep, Of that sad city, in its dreaming bower By the volcano seized, where mansions keep The likeness which they wore at that last fatal sleep;
Or be his bark at Posillippo laid, While as the swarthy boatman at his side Chants Tasso's lays to Virgil's pleased shade, Ever he sees, throughout that circuit wide, From shaded nook or sunny lawn espied, From rocky headland viewed, or flow'ry shore, From sea, and spreading mead alike descried, _The Giant Mount_, tow'ring all objects o'er, And black'ning with its breath th' horizon evermore!
_Fraser's Magazine_
THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS.
_("Quand longtemps a grondé la bouche du Vésuve.")_
[I. vii.]
When huge Vesuvius in its torment long, Threatening has growled its cavernous jaws among, When its hot lava, like the bubbling wine, Foaming doth all its monstrous edge incarnadine, Then is alarm in Naples.
With dismay, Wanton and wild her weeping thousands pour, Convulsive grasp the ground, its rage to stay, Implore the angry Mount--in vain implore! For lo! a column tow'ring more and more, Of smoke and ashes from the burning crest Shoots like a vulture's neck reared from its airy nest.
Sudden a flash, and from th' enormous den Th' eruption's lurid mass bursts forth amain, Bounding in frantic ecstasy. Ah! then Farewell to Grecian fount and Tuscan fane! Sails in the bay imbibe the purpling stain, The while the lava in profusion wide Flings o'er the mountain's neck its showery locks untied.
It comes--it comes! that lava deep and rich, That dower which fertilizes fields and fills New moles upon the waters, bay and beach. Broad sea and clustered isles, one terror thrills As roll the red inexorable rills; While Naples trembles in her palaces, More helpless than the leaves when tempests shake the trees.
Prodigious chaos, streets in ashes lost, Dwellings devoured and vomited again. Roof against neighbor-roof, bewildered, tossed. The waters boiling and the burning plain; While clang the giant steeples as they reel, Unprompted, their own tocsin peal.
Yet 'mid the wreck of cities, and the pride Of the green valleys and the isles laid low, The crash of walls, the tumult waste and wide, O'er sea and land; 'mid all this work of woe, Vesuvius still, though close its crater-glow, Forgetful spares--Heaven wills that it should spare, The lonely cell where kneels an aged priest in prayer.
_Fraser's Magazine_.
MARRIAGE AND FEASTS.
_("La salle est magnifique.")_
[IV. Aug. 23, 1839.]
The hall is gay with limpid lustre bright-- The feast to pampered palate gives delight-- The sated guests pick at the spicy food, And drink profusely, for the cheer is good; And at that table--where the wise are few-- Both sexes and all ages meet the view; The sturdy warrior with a thoughtful face-- The am'rous youth, the maid replete with grace, The prattling infant, and the hoary hair Of second childhood's proselytes--are there;-- And the most gaudy in that spacious hall, Are e'er the young, or oldest of them all Helmet and banner, ornament and crest, The lion rampant, and the jewelled vest, The silver star that glitters fair and white, The arms that tell of many a nation's might-- Heraldic blazonry, ancestral pride, And all mankind invents for pomp beside, The wingèd leopard, and the eagle wild-- All these encircle woman, chief and child; Shine on the carpet burying their feet, Adorn the dishes that contain their meat; And hang upon the drapery, which around Falls from the lofty ceiling to the ground, Till on the floor its waving fringe is spread, As the bird's wing may sweep the roses' bed.--
Thus is the banquet ruled by Noise and Light, Since Light and Noise are foremost on the site.
The chamber echoes to the joy of them Who throng around, each with his diadem-- Each seated on proud throne--but, lesson vain! Each sceptre holds its master with a chain! Thus hope of flight were futile from that hall, Where chiefest guest was most enslaved of all! The godlike-making draught that fires the soul The Love--sweet poison-honey--past control, (Formed of the sexual breath--an idle name, Offspring of Fancy and a nervous frame)-- Pleasure, mad daughter of the darksome Night, Whose languid eye flames when is fading light-- The gallant chases where a man is borne By stalwart charger, to the sounding horn-- The sheeny silk, the bed of leaves of rose, Made more to soothe the sight than court repose; The mighty palaces that raise the sneer Of jealous mendicants and wretches near-- The spacious parks, from which horizon blue Arches o'er alabaster statues new; Where Superstition still her walk will take, Unto soft music stealing o'er the lake-- The innocent modesty by gems undone-- The qualms of judges by small brib'ry won-- The dread of children, trembling while they play-- The bliss of monarchs, potent in their sway-- The note of war struck by the culverin, That snakes its brazen neck through battle din-- The military millipede That tramples out the guilty seed-- The capital all pleasure and delight-- And all that like a town or army chokes The gazer with foul dust or sulphur smokes. The budget, prize for which ten thousand bait A subtle hook, that ever, as they wait Catches a weed, and drags them to their fate, While gleamingly its golden scales still spread-- Such were the meats by which these guests were fed.
A hundred slaves for lazy master cared, And served each one with what was e'er prepared By him, who in a sombre vault below, Peppered the royal pig with peoples' woe, And grimly glad went laboring till late-- The morose alchemist we know as Fate! That ev'ry guest might learn to suit his taste, Behind had Conscience, real or mock'ry, placed; Conscience a guide who every evil spies, But royal nurses early pluck out both his eyes!
Oh! at the table there be all the great, Whose lives are bubbles that best joys inflate! Superb, magnificent of revels--doubt That sagest lose their heads in such a rout! In the long laughter, ceaseless roaming round, Joy, mirth and glee give out a maelström's sound; And the astonished gazer casts his care, Where ev'ry eyeball glistens in the flare.
But oh! while yet the singing Hebes pour Forgetfulness of those without the door-- At very hour when all are most in joy, And the hid orchestra annuls annoy, Woe--woe! with jollity a-top the heights, With further tapers adding to the lights, And gleaming 'tween the curtains on the street, Where poor folks stare--hark to the heavy feet! Some one smites roundly on the gilded grate, Some one below will be admitted straight, Some one, though not invited, who'll not wait! Close not the door! Your orders are vain breath-- That stranger enters to be known as Death-- Or merely Exile--clothed in alien guise-- Death drags away--with _his_ prey Exile flies!
Death is that sight. He promenades the hall, And casts a gloomy shadow on them all, 'Neath which they bend like willows soft, Ere seizing one--the dumbest monarch oft, And bears him to eternal heat and drouth, While still the toothsome morsel's in his mouth.
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
THE MORROW OF GRANDEUR.
_("Non, l'avenir n'est à personne!")_
[V. ii., August, 1832.]
Sire, beware, the future's range Is of God alone the power, Naught below but augurs change, E'en with ev'ry passing hour. Future! mighty mystery! All the earthly goods that be, Fortune, glory, war's renown, King or kaiser's sparkling crown, Victory! with her burning wings, Proud ambition's covetings,-- These may our grasp no more detain Than the free bird who doth alight Upon our roof, and takes its flight High into air again.
Nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord's command, Avails t' unclasp the cold and closèd hand. Thy voice to disenthrall, Dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side! Veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride, Whom men "To-morrow" call.
Oh, to-morrow! who may dare Its realities to scan? God to-morrow brings to bear What to-day is sown by man. 'Tis the lightning in its shroud, 'Tis the star-concealing cloud, Traitor, 'tis his purpose showing, Engine, lofty tow'rs o'erthrowing, Wand'ring star, its region changing, "Lady of kingdoms," ever ranging. To-morrow! 'Tis the rude display Of the throne's framework, blank and cold, That, rich with velvet, bright with gold, Dazzles the eye to-day.
To-morrow! 'tis the foaming war-horse falling; To-morrow! thy victorious march appalling, 'Tis the red fires from Moscow's tow'rs that wave; 'Tis thine Old Guard strewing the Belgian plain; 'Tis the lone island in th' Atlantic main: To-morrow! 'tis the grave!
Into capitals subdued Thou mayst ride with gallant rein, Cut the knots of civil feud With the trenchant steel in twain; With thine edicts barricade Haughty Thames' o'er-freighted trade; Fickle Victory's self enthrall, Captive to thy trumpet call; Burst the stoutest gates asunder; Leave the names of brightest wonder, Pale and dim, behind thee far; And to exhaustless armies yield Thy glancing spur,--o'er Europe's field A glory-guiding star.
God guards duration, if lends space to thee, Thou mayst o'er-range mundane immensity, Rise high as human head can rise sublime, Snatch Europe from the stamp of Charlemagne, Asia from Mahomet; but never gain Power o'er the Morrow from the Lord of Time!
_Fraser's Magazine._
THE EAGLET MOURNED.
_("Encore si ce banni n'eût rien aimé sur terre.")_
[V, iv., August, 1832.]
Too hard Napoleon's fate! if, lone, No being he had loved, no single one, Less dark that doom had been. But with the heart of might doth ever dwell The heart of love! and in his island cell Two things there were--I ween.
Two things--a portrait and a map there were-- Here hung the pictured world, an infant there: That framed his genius, this enshrined his love. And as at eve he glanced round th' alcove, Where jailers watched his very thoughts to spy, What mused he _then_--what dream of years gone by Stirred 'neath that discrowned brow, and fired that glistening eye?
'Twas not the steps of that heroic tale That from Arcola marched to Montmirail On Glory's red degrees; Nor Cairo-pashas' steel-devouring steeds, Nor the tall shadows of the Pyramids-- Ah! Twas not always these;
'Twas not the bursting shell, the iron sleet, The whirlwind rush of battle 'neath his feet, Through twice ten years ago, When at his beck, upon that sea of steel Were launched the rustling banners--there to reel Like masts when tempests blow.
'Twas not Madrid, nor Kremlin of the Czar, Nor Pharos on Old Egypt's coast afar, Nor shrill _réveillé's_ camp-awakening sound, Nor bivouac couch'd its starry fires around, Crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers, Nor the red lancers 'mid their wood of spears Blazing like baleful poppies 'mong the golden ears.
No--'twas an infant's image, fresh and fair, With rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there. It lay beneath the smile, Of her whose breast, soft-bending o'er its sleep, Lingering upon that little lip doth keep One pendent drop the while.
Then, his sad head upon his hands inclined, He wept; that father-heart all unconfined, Outpoured in love alone. My blessing on thy clay-cold head, poor child. Sole being for whose sake his thoughts, beguiled, Forgot the world's lost throne.
_Fraser's Magazine_
INVOCATION.
[V, vi., August, 1832.]
Say, Lord! for Thou alone canst tell Where lurks the good invisible Amid the depths of discord's sea-- That seem, alas! so dark to me! Oppressive to a mighty state, Contentions, feuds, the people's hate-- But who dare question that which fate Has ordered to have been? Haply the earthquake may unfold The resting-place of purest gold, And haply surges up have rolled The pearls that were unseen!
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
OUTSIDE THE BALL-ROOM.
_("Ainsi l'Hôtel de Ville illumine.")_
[VI., May, 1833.]
Behold the ball-room flashing on the sight, From step to cornice one grand glare of light; The noise of mirth and revelry resounds, Like fairy melody on haunted grounds. But who demands this profuse, wanton glee, These shouts prolonged and wild festivity-- Not sure our city--web, more woe than bliss, In any hour, requiring aught but this!
Deaf is the ear of all that jewelled crowd To sorrow's sob, although its call be loud. Better than waste long nights in idle show, To help the indigent and raise the low-- To train the wicked to forsake his way, And find th' industrious work from day to day! Better to charity those hours afford, Which now are wasted at the festal board!
And ye, O high-born beauties! in whose soul Virtue resides, and Vice has no control; Ye whom prosperity forbids to sin, So fair without--so chaste, so pure within-- Whose honor Want ne'er threatened to betray, Whose eyes are joyous, and whose heart is gay; Around whose modesty a hundred arms, Aided by pride, protect a thousand charms; For you this ball is pregnant with delight; As glitt'ring planets cheer the gloomy night:-- But, O, ye wist not, while your souls are glad, How millions wander, homeless, sick and sad! Hazard has placed you in a happy sphere, And like your own to you all lots appear; For blinded by the sun of bliss your eyes Can see no dark horizon to the skies.
Such is the chance of life! Each gallant thane, Prince, peer, and noble, follow in your train;-- They praise your loveliness, and in your ear They whisper pleasing things, but insincere; Thus, as the moths enamoured of the light, Ye seek these realms of revelry each night. But as ye travel thither, did ye know What wretches walk the streets through which you go. Sisters, whose gewgaws glitter in the glare Of your great lustre, all expectant there, Watching the passing crowd with avid eye, Till one their love, or lust, or shame may buy; Or, with commingling jealousy and rage, They mark the progress of your equipage; And their deceitful life essays the while To mask their woe beneath a sickly smile!
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
PRAYER FOR FRANCE.
_("O Dieu, si vous avez la France.")_
[VII., August, 1832.]
O God! if France be still thy guardian care, Oh! spare these mercenary combats, spare! The thrones that now are reared but to be broke; The rights we render, and anon revoke; The muddy stream of laws, ideas, needs, Flooding our social life as it proceeds; Opposing tribunes, even when seeming one-- Soft, yielding plaster put in place of stone; Wave chasing wave in endless ebb and flow; War, darker still and deeper in its woe; One party fall'n, successor scarce preludes, Than, straight, new views their furious feuds; The great man's pressure on the poor for gold, Rumors uncertain, conflicts, crimes untold; Dark systems hatched in secret and in fear, Telling of hate and strife to every ear, That even to midnight sleep no peace is given, For murd'rous cannon through our streets are driven.
J.S. MACRAE.
TO CANARIS, THE GREEK PATRIOT.
_("Canaris! nous t'avons oublié.")_
[VIII., October, 1832.]
O Canaris! O Canaris! the poet's song Has blameful left untold thy deeds too long! But when the tragic actor's part is done, When clamor ceases, and the fights are won, When heroes realize what Fate decreed, When chieftains mark no more which thousands bleed; When they have shone, as clouded or as bright, As fitful meteor in the heaven at night, And when the sycophant no more proclaims To gaping crowds the glory of their names,-- 'Tis then the mem'ries of warriors die, And fall--alas!--into obscurity, Until the poet, in whose verse alone Exists a world--can make their actions known, And in eternal epic measures, show They are not yet forgotten here below. And yet by us neglected! glory gloomed, Thy name seems sealed apart, entombed, Although our shouts to pigmies rise--no cries To mark thy presence echo to the skies; Farewell to Grecian heroes--silent is the lute, And sets your sun without one Memnon bruit?
There was a time men gave no peace To cheers for Athens, Bozzaris, Leonidas, and Greece! And Canaris' more-worshipped name was found On ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart around. But now is changed the scene! On hist'ry's page Are writ o'er thine deeds of another age, And thine are not remembered.--Greece, farewell! The world no more thine heroes' deeds will tell.
Not that this matters to a man like thee! To whom is left the dark blue open sea, Thy gallant bark, that o'er the water flies, And the bright planet guiding in clear skies; All these remain, with accident and strife, Hope, and the pleasures of a roving life, Boon Nature's fairest prospects--land and main-- The noisy starting, glad return again; The pride of freeman on a bounding deck Which mocks at dangers and despises wreck, And e'en if lightning-pinions cleave the sea, 'Tis all replete with joyousness to thee!
Yes, these remain! blue sky and ocean blue, Thine eagles with one sweep beyond the view-- The sun in golden beauty ever pure, The distance where rich warmth doth aye endure-- Thy language so mellifluously bland, Mixed with sweet idioms from Italia's strand, As Baya's streams to Samos' waters glide And with them mingle in one placid tide.
Yes, these remain, and, Canaris! thy arms-- The sculptured sabre, faithful in alarms-- The broidered garb, the yataghan, the vest Expressive of thy rank, to thee still rest! And when thy vessel o'er the foaming sound Is proud past storied coasts to blithely bound, At once the point of beauty may restore Smiles to thy lip, and smoothe thy brow once more.
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
POLAND.
_("Seule au pied de la tour.")_
[IX., September, 1833.]
Alone, beneath the tower whence thunder forth The mandates of the Tyrant of the North, Poland's sad genius kneels, absorbed in tears, Bound, vanquished, pallid with her fears-- Alas! the crucifix is all that's left To her, of freedom and her sons bereft; And on her royal robe foul marks are seen Where Russian hectors' scornful feet have been. Anon she hears the clank of murd'rous arms,-- The swordsmen come once more to spread alarms! And while she weeps against the prison walls, And waves her bleeding arm until it falls, To France she hopeless turns her glazing eyes, And sues her sister's succor ere she dies.
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
INSULT NOT THE FALLEN.
_("Oh! n'insultez jamais une femme qui tombe.")_
[XIV., Sept. 6, 1835.]
I tell you, hush! no word of sneering scorn-- True, fallen; but God knows how deep her sorrow. Poor girl! too many like her only born To love one day--to sin--and die the morrow. What know you of her struggles or her grief? Or what wild storms of want and woe and pain Tore down her soul from honor? As a leaf From autumn branches, or a drop of rain That hung in frailest splendor from a bough-- Bright, glistening in the sunlight of God's day-- So had she clung to virtue once. But now-- See Heaven's clear pearl polluted with earth's clay! The sin is yours--with your accursed gold-- Man's wealth is master--woman's soul the slave! Some purest water still the mire may hold. Is there no hope for her--no power to save? Yea, once again to draw up from the clay The fallen raindrop, till it shine above, Or save a fallen soul, needs but one ray Of Heaven's sunshine, or of human love.
W.C.K. WILDE.
MORNING.
_("L'aurore s'allume.")_
[XX. a, December, 1834.]
Morning glances hither, Now the shade is past; Dream and fog fly thither Where Night goes at last; Open eyes and roses As the darkness closes; And the sound that grows is Nature walking fast.
Murmuring all and singing, Hark! the news is stirred, Roof and creepers clinging, Smoke and nest of bird; Winds to oak-trees bear it, Streams and fountains hear it, Every breath and spirit As a voice is heard.
All takes up its story, Child resumes his play, Hearth its ruddy glory, Lute its lifted lay. Wild or out of senses, Through the world immense is Sound as each commences Schemes of yesterday.
W.M. HARDINGE.
SONG OF LOVE.
_("S'il est un charmant gazon.")_
[XXII, Feb. 18, 1834.]
If there be a velvet sward By dewdrops pearly drest, Where through all seasons fairies guard Flowers by bees carest, Where one may gather, day and night, Roses, honeysuckle, lily white, I fain would make of it a site For thy foot to rest.
If there be a loving heart Where Honor rules the breast, Loyal and true in every part, That changes ne'er molest, Eager to run its noble race, Intent to do some work of grace, I fain would make of it a place For thy brow to rest.
And if there be of love a dream Rose-scented as the west, Which shows, each time it comes, a gleam,-- A something sweet and blest,-- A dream of which heaven is the pole, A dream that mingles soul and soul, I fain of it would make the goal Where thy mind should rest.
TORU DUTT.
SWEET CHARMER.[1]
_("L'aube naît et ta porte est close.")_
[XXIII., February, 18--.]
Though heaven's gate of light uncloses, Thou stirr'st not--thou'rt laid to rest, Waking are thy sister roses, One only dreamest on thy breast. Hear me, sweet dreamer! Tell me all thy fears, Trembling in song, But to break in tears.
Lo! to greet thee, spirits pressing, Soft music brings the gentle dove, And fair light falleth like a blessing, While my poor heart can bring thee only love. Worship thee, angels love thee, sweet woman? Yes; for that love perfects my soul. None the less of heaven that my heart is human, Blent in one exquisite, harmonious whole.
H.B. FARNIE.
[Footnote 1: Set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.]
MORE STRONG THAN TIME.
_("Puisque j'ai mis ma lèvre à ta coupe.")_
[XXV., Jan. 1, 1835.]
Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it, And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade;
Since it was given to me to hear one happy while, The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, Your lips upon my lips, and your gaze upon my eyes;
Since I have known upon my forehead glance and gleam, A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always, Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream, Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days;
I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours, Pass--pass upon your way, for I grow never old. Flee to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers, One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold.
Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet. My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill, My soul more love than you can make my love forget.
A. LANG.
ROSES AND BUTTERFLIES.
_("Roses et Papillons.")_
[XXVII., Dec. 7, 1834.]
The grave receives us all: Ye butterflies and roses gay and sweet Why do ye linger, say? Will ye not dwell together as is meet? Somewhere high in the air Would thy wing seek a home 'mid sunny skies, In mead or mossy dell-- If there thy odors longest, sweetest rise.
Have where ye will your dwelling, Or breath or tint whose praise we sing; Butterfly shining bright, Full-blown or bursting rosebud, flow'r or wing. Dwell together ye fair, 'Tis a boon to the loveliest given; Perchance ye then may choose your home On the earth or in heaven.
W.C. WESTBROOK
A SIMILE.
_("Soyez comme l'oiseau.")_
[XXXIII. vi.]
Thou art like the bird That alights and sings Though the frail spray bends-- For he knows he has wings.
FANNY KEMBLE (BUTLER)
THE POET TO HIS WIFE.
_("À toi, toujours à toi.")_
[XXXIX., 1823]
To thee, all time to thee, My lyre a voice shall be! Above all earthly fashion, Above mere mundane rage, Your mind made it my passion To write for noblest stage.
Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her--she Was sister of my soul immortal, free! My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource, When green hoped not to gray to run its course; She was enthronèd Virtue under heaven's dome, My idol in the shrine of curtained home.
LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES.--1840.
THE BLINDED BOURBONS.
_("Qui leur eût dit l'austère destineé?")_
[II. v., November, 1836.]
Who _then_, to them[1] had told the Future's story? Or said that France, low bowed before their glory, One day would mindful be Of them and of their mournful fate no more, Than of the wrecks its waters have swept o'er The unremembering sea?
That their old Tuileries should see the fall Of blazons from its high heraldic hall, Dismantled, crumbling, prone;[2] Or that, o'er yon dark Louvre's architrave[3] A Corsican, as yet unborn, should grave An eagle, then unknown?
That gay St. Cloud another lord awaited, Or that in scenes Le Nôtre's art created For princely sport and ease, Crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade, Should browse the bark beneath the stately shade Of the great Louis' trees?
_Fraser's Magazine._
[Footnote 1: The young princes, afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.]
[Footnote 2: The Tuileries, several times stormed by mobs, was so irreparably injured by the Communists that, in 1882, the Paris Town Council decided that the ruins should be cleared away.]
[Footnote 3: After the Eagle and the Bee superseded the Lily-flowers, the Third Napoleon's initial "N" flourished for two decades, but has been excised or plastered over, the words "National Property" or "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" being cut in the stone profusely.]
TO ALBERT DÜRER.
_("Dans les vieilles forêts.")_
[X., April 20, 1837.]
Through ancient forests--where like flowing tide The rising sap shoots vigor far and wide, Mounting the column of the alder dark And silv'ring o'er the birch's shining bark-- Hast thou not often, Albert Dürer, strayed Pond'ring, awe-stricken--through the half-lit glade, Pallid and trembling--glancing not behind From mystic fear that did thy senses bind, Yet made thee hasten with unsteady pace? Oh, Master grave! whose musings lone we trace Throughout thy works we look on reverently. Amidst the gloomy umbrage thy mind's eye Saw clearly, 'mong the shadows soft yet deep, The web-toed faun, and Pan the green-eyed peep, Who deck'd with flowers the cave where thou might'st rest, Leaf-laden dryads, too, in verdure drest. A strange weird world such forest was to thee, Where mingled truth and dreams in mystery; There leaned old ruminating pines, and there The giant elms, whose boughs deformed and bare A hundred rough and crooked elbows made; And in this sombre group the wind had swayed, Nor life--nor death--but life in death seemed found. The cresses drink--the water flows--and round Upon the slopes the mountain rowans meet, And 'neath the brushwood plant their gnarled feet, Intwining slowly where the creepers twine. There, too, the lakes as mirrors brightly shine, And show the swan-necked flowers, each line by line. Chimeras roused take stranger shapes for thee, The glittering scales of mailèd throat we see, And claws tight pressed on huge old knotted tree; While from a cavern dim the bright eyes glare. Oh, vegetation! Spirit! Do we dare Question of matter, and of forces found 'Neath a rude skin-in living verdure bound. Oh, Master--I, like thee, have wandered oft Where mighty trees made arches high aloft, But ever with a consciousness of strife, A surging struggle of the inner life. Ever the trembling of the grass I say, And the boughs rocking as the breezes play, Have stirred deep thoughts in a bewild'ring way. Oh, God! alone Great Witness of all deeds, Of thoughts and acts, and all our human needs, God only knows how often in such scenes Of savage beauty under leafy screens, I've felt the mighty oaks had spirit dower-- Like me knew mirth and sorrow--sentient power, And whisp'ring each to each in twilight dim, Had hearts that beat--and owned a soul from Him!
MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND
TO HIS MUSE.
_("Puisqu'ici-bas tout âme.")_
[XL, May 19, 1836.]
Since everything below, Doth, in this mortal state, Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow Communicate;
Since all that lives and moves Upon the earth, bestows On what it seeks and what it loves Its thorn or rose;
Since April to the trees Gives a bewitching sound, And sombre night to grief gives ease, And peace profound;
Since day-spring on the flower A fresh'ning drop confers, And the fresh air on branch and bower Its choristers;
Since the dark wave bestows A soft caress, imprest On the green bank to which it goes Seeking its rest;
I give thee at this hour, Thus fondly bent o'er thee, The best of all the things in dow'r That in me be.
Receive,-poor gift, 'tis true, Which grief, not joy, endears,-- My thoughts, that like a shower of dew, Reach thee in tears.
My vows untold receive, All pure before thee laid; Receive of all the days I live The light or shade!
My hours with rapture fill'd, Which no suspicion wrongs; And all the blandishments distill'd From all my songs.
My spirit, whose essay Flies fearless, wild, and free, And hath, and seeks, to guide its way No star but thee.
No pensive, dreamy Muse, Who, though all else should smile, Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose, To weep the while.
Oh, sweetest mine! this gift Receive;--'tis throe alone;-- My heart, of which there's nothing left When Love is gone!
_Fraser's Magazine._
THE COW.
_("Devant la blanche ferme.")_
[XV., May, 1837.]
Before the farm where, o'er the porch, festoon Wild creepers red, and gaffer sits at noon, Whilst strutting fowl display their varied crests, And the old watchdog slumberously rests, They half-attentive to the clarion of their king, Resplendent in the sunshine op'ning wing-- There stood a cow, with neck-bell jingling light, Superb, enormous, dappled red and white-- Soft, gentle, patient as a hind unto its young, Letting the children swarm until they hung Around her, under--rustics with their teeth Whiter than marble their ripe lips beneath, And bushy hair fresh and more brown Than mossy walls at old gates of a town, Calling to one another with loud cries For younger imps to be in at the prize; Stealing without concern but tremulous with fear They glance around lest Doll the maid appear;-- Their jolly lips--that haply cause some pain, And all those busy fingers, pressing now and 'gain, The teeming udders whose small, thousand pores Gush out the nectar 'mid their laughing roars, While she, good mother, gives and gives in heaps, And never moves. Anon there creeps A vague soft shiver o'er the hide unmarred, As sharp they pull, she seems of stone most hard. Dreamy of large eye, seeks she no release, And shrinks not while there's one still to appease. Thus Nature--refuge 'gainst the slings of fate! Mother of all, indulgent as she's great! Lets us, the hungered of each age and rank, Shadow and milk seek in the eternal flank; Mystic and carnal, foolish, wise, repair, The souls retiring and those that dare, Sages with halos, poets laurel-crowned, All creep beneath or cluster close around, And with unending greed and joyous cries, From sources full, draw need's supplies, Quench hearty thirst, obtain what must eftsoon Form blood and mind, in freest boon, Respire at length thy sacred flaming light, From all that greets our ears, touch, scent or sight-- Brown leaves, blue mountains, yellow gleams, green sod-- Thou undistracted still dost dream of God.
TORU DUTT.
MOTHERS.
_("Regardez: les enfants.")_
[XX., June, 1884.]
See all the children gathered there, Their mother near; so young, so fair, An eider sister she might be, And yet she hears, amid their games, The shaking of their unknown names In the dark urn of destiny.
She wakes their smiles, she soothes their cares, On that pure heart so like to theirs, Her spirit with such life is rife That in its golden rays we see, Touched into graceful poesy, The dull cold commonplace of life.
Still following, watching, whether burn The Christmas log in winter stern, While merry plays go round; Or streamlets laugh to breeze of May That shakes the leaf to break away-- A shadow falling to the ground.
If some poor man with hungry eyes Her baby's coral bauble spies, She marks his look with famine wild, For Christ's dear sake she makes with joy An alms-gift of the silver toy-- A smiling angel of the child.
_Dublin University Magazine_
TO SOME BIRDS FLOWN AWAY.
_("Enfants! Oh! revenez!")_
[XXII, April, 1837]
Children, come back--come back, I say-- You whom my folly chased away A moment since, from this my room, With bristling wrath and words of doom! What had you done, you bandits small, With lips as red as roses all? What crime?--what wild and hapless deed? What porcelain vase by you was split To thousand pieces? Did you need For pastime, as you handled it, Some Gothic missal to enrich With your designs fantastical? Or did your tearing fingers fall On some old picture? Which, oh, which Your dreadful fault? Not one of these; Only when left yourselves to please This morning but a moment here 'Mid papers tinted by my mind You took some embryo verses near-- Half formed, but fully well designed To open out. Your hearts desire Was but to throw them on the fire, Then watch the tinder, for the sight Of shining sparks that twinkle bright As little boats that sail at night, Or like the window lights that spring From out the dark at evening.
'Twas all, and you were well content. Fine loss was this for anger's vent-- A strophe ill made midst your play, Sweet sound that chased the words away In stormy flight. An ode quite new, With rhymes inflated--stanzas, too, That panted, moving lazily, And heavy Alexandrine lines That seemed to jostle bodily, Like children full of play designs That spring at once from schoolroom's form. Instead of all this angry storm, Another might have thanked you well For saving prey from that grim cell, That hollowed den 'neath journals great, Where editors who poets flout With their demoniac laughter shout. And I have scolded you! What fate For charming dwarfs who never meant To anger Hercules! And I Have frightened you!--My chair I sent Back to the wall, and then let fly A shower of words the envious use-- "Get out," I said, with hard abuse, "Leave me alone--alone I say." Poor man alone! Ah, well-a-day, What fine result--what triumph rare! As one turns from the coffin'd dead So left you me:--I could but stare Upon the door through which you fled-- I proud and grave--but punished quite. And what care you for this my plight!-- You have recovered liberty, Fresh air and lovely scenery, The spacious park and wished-for grass; The running stream, where you can throw A blade to watch what comes to pass; Blue sky, and all the spring can show; Nature, serenely fair to see; The book of birds and spirits free, God's poem, worth much more than mine, Where flowers for perfect stanzas shine-- Flowers that a child may pluck in play, No harsh voice frightening it away. And I'm alone--all pleasure o'er-- Alone with pedant called "Ennui," For since the morning at my door Ennui has waited patiently. That docto-r-London born, you mark, One Sunday in December dark, Poor little ones--he loved you not, And waited till the chance he got To enter as you passed away, And in the very corner where You played with frolic laughter gay, He sighs and yawns with weary air.
What can I do? Shall I read books, Or write more verse--or turn fond looks Upon enamels blue, sea-green, And white--on insects rare as seen Upon my Dresden china ware? Or shall I touch the globe, and care To make the heavens turn upon Its axis? No, not one--not one Of all these things care I to do; All wearies me--I think of you. In truth with you my sunshine fled, And gayety with your light tread-- Glad noise that set me dreaming still. 'Twas my delight to watch your will, And mark you point with finger-tips To help your spelling out a word; To see the pearls between your lips When I your joyous laughter heard; Your honest brows that looked so true, And said "Oh, yes!" to each intent; Your great bright eyes, that loved to view With admiration innocent My fine old Sèvres; the eager thought That every kind of knowledge sought; The elbow push with "Come and see!"
Oh, certes! spirits, sylphs, there be, And fays the wind blows often here; The gnomes that squat the ceiling near, In corners made by old books dim; The long-backed dwarfs, those goblins grim That seem at home 'mong vases rare, And chat to them with friendly air-- Oh, how the joyous demon throng Must all have laughed with laughter long To see you on my rough drafts fall, My bald hexameters, and all The mournful, miserable band, And drag them with relentless hand From out their box, with true delight To set them each and all a-light, And then with clapping hands to lean Above the stove and watch the scene, How to the mass deformed there came A soul that showed itself in flame!
Bright tricksy children--oh, I pray Come back and sing and dance away, And chatter too--sometimes you may, A giddy group, a big book seize-- Or sometimes, if it so you please, With nimble step you'll run to me And push the arm that holds the pen, Till on my finished verse will be A stroke that's like a steeple when Seen suddenly upon a plain. My soul longs for your breath again To warm it. Oh, return--come here With laugh and babble--and no fear When with your shadow you obscure The book I read, for I am sure, Oh, madcaps terrible and dear, That you were right and I was wrong. But who has ne'er with scolding tongue Blamed out of season. Pardon me! You must forgive--for sad are we.
The young should not be hard and cold And unforgiving to the old. Children each morn your souls ope out Like windows to the shining day, Oh, miracle that comes about, The miracle that children gay Have happiness and goodness too, Caressed by destiny are you, Charming you are, if you but play. But we with living overwrought, And full of grave and sombre thought, Are snappish oft: dear little men, We have ill-tempered days, and then, Are quite unjust and full of care; It rained this morning and the air Was chill; but clouds that dimm'd the sky Have passed. Things spited me, and why? But now my heart repents. Behold What 'twas that made me cross, and scold! All by-and-by you'll understand, When brows are mark'd by Time's stern hand; Then you will comprehend, be sure, When older--that's to say, less pure.
The fault I freely own was mine. But oh, for pardon now I pine! Enough my punishment to meet, You must forgive, I do entreat With clasped hands praying--oh, come back, Make peace, and you shall nothing lack. See now my pencils--paper--here, And pointless compasses, and dear Old lacquer-work; and stoneware clear Through glass protecting; all man's toys So coveted by girls and boys. Great China monsters--bodies much Like cucumbers--you all shall touch. I yield up all! my picture rare Found beneath antique rubbish heap, My great and tapestried oak chair I will from you no longer keep. You shall about my table climb, And dance, or drag, without a cry From me as if it were a crime. Even I'll look on patiently If you your jagged toys all throw Upon my carved bench, till it show The wood is torn; and freely too, I'll leave in your own hands to view, My pictured Bible--oft desired-- But which to touch your fear inspired-- With God in emperor's robes attired.
Then if to see my verses burn, Should seem to you a pleasant turn, Take them to freely tear away Or burn. But, oh! not so I'd say, If this were Méry's room to-day. That noble poet! Happy town, Marseilles the Greek, that him doth own! Daughter of Homer, fair to see, Of Virgil's son the mother she. To you I'd say, Hold, children all, Let but your eyes on his work fall; These papers are the sacred nest In which his crooning fancies rest; To-morrow winged to Heaven they'll soar, For new-born verse imprisoned still In manuscript may suffer sore At your small hands and childish will, Without a thought of bad intent, Of cruelty quite innocent. You wound their feet, and bruise their wings, And make them suffer those ill things That children's play to young birds brings.
But mine! no matter what you do, My poetry is all in you; You are my inspiration bright That gives my verse its purest light. Children whose life is made of hope, Whose joy, within its mystic scope, Owes all to ignorance of ill, You have not suffered, and you still Know not what gloomy thoughts weigh down The poet-writer weary grown. What warmth is shed by your sweet smile! How much he needs to gaze awhile Upon your shining placid brow, When his own brow its ache doth know; With what delight he loves to hear Your frolic play 'neath tree that's near, Your joyous voices mixing well With his own song's all-mournful swell! Come back then, children! come to me, If you wish not that I should be As lonely now that you're afar As fisherman of Etrétat, Who listless on his elbow leans Through all the weary winter scenes, As tired of thought--as on Time flies-- And watching only rainy skies!
MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.
MY THOUGHTS OF YE.
_("À quoi je songe?")_
[XXIII., July, 1836.]
What do I dream of? Far from the low roof, Where now ye are, children, I dream of you; Of your young heads that are the hope and crown Of my full summer, ripening to its fall. Branches whose shadow grows along my wall, Sweet souls scarce open to the breath of day, Still dazzled with the brightness of your dawn. I dream of those two little ones at play, Making the threshold vocal with their cries, Half tears, half laughter, mingled sport and strife, Like two flowers knocked together by the wind. Or of the elder two--more anxious thought-- Breasting already broader waves of life, A conscious innocence on either face, My pensive daughter and my curious boy. Thus do I dream, while the light sailors sing, At even moored beneath some steepy shore, While the waves opening all their nostrils breathe A thousand sea-scents to the wandering wind, And the whole air is full of wondrous sounds, From sea to strand, from land to sea, given back Alone and sad, thus do I dream of you. Children, and house and home, the table set, The glowing hearth, and all the pious care Of tender mother, and of grandsire kind; And while before me, spotted with white sails, The limpid ocean mirrors all the stars, And while the pilot, from the infinite main, Looks with calm eye into the infinite heaven, I dreaming of you only, seek to scan And fathom all my soul's deep love for you-- Love sweet, and powerful, and everlasting-- And find that the great sea is small beside it.
_Dublin University Magazine._
THE BEACON IN THE STORM.
_("Quels sont ces bruits sourds?")_
[XXIV., July 17, 1836.]
Hark to that solemn sound! It steals towards the strand.-- Whose is that voice profound Which mourns the swallowed land, With moans, Or groans, New threats of ruin close at hand? It is Triton--the storm to scorn Who doth wind his sonorous horn.
How thick the rain to-night! And all along the coast The sky shows naught of light Is it a storm, my host? Too soon The boon Of pleasant weather will be lost Yes, 'tis Triton, etc.
Are seamen on that speck Afar in deepening dark? Is that a splitting deck Of some ill-fated bark? Fend harm! Send calm! O Venus! show thy starry spark! Though 'tis Triton, etc.
The thousand-toothèd gale,-- Adventurers too bold!-- Rips up your toughest sail And tears your anchor-hold. You forge Through surge, To be in rending breakers rolled. While old Triton, etc.
Do sailors stare this way, Cramped on the Needle's sheaf, To hail the sudden ray Which promises relief? Then, bright; Shine, light! Of hope upon the beacon reef! Though 'tis Triton, etc.
LOVE'S TREACHEROUS POOL
_("Jeune fille, l'amour c'est un miroir.")_
[XXVI., February, 1835.]
Young maiden, true love is a pool all mirroring clear, Where coquettish girls come to linger in long delight, For it banishes afar from the face all the clouds that besmear The soul truly bright; But tempts you to ruffle its surface; drawing your foot To subtilest sinking! and farther and farther the brink That vainly you snatch--for repentance, 'tis weed without root,-- And struggling, you sink!
THE ROSE AND THE GRAVE.
_("La tombe dit à la rose.")_
[XXXI., June 3, 1837]
The Grave said to the rose "What of the dews of dawn, Love's flower, what end is theirs?" "And what of spirits flown, The souls whereon doth close The tomb's mouth unawares?" The Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said: "In the shade From the dawn's tears is made A perfume faint and strange, Amber and honey sweet." "And all the spirits fleet Do suffer a sky-change, More strangely than the dew, To God's own angels new," The Grave said to the Rose.
A. LANG.
LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES.--1840.
HOLYROOD PALACE.
_("O palais, sois bénié.")_
[II., June, 1839.]
Palace and ruin, bless thee evermore! Grateful we bow thy gloomy tow'rs before; For the old King of France[1] hath found in thee That melancholy hospitality Which in their royal fortune's evil day, Stuarts and Bourbons to each other pay.
_Fraser's Magazine._
[Footnote 1: King Charles X.]
THE HUMBLE HOME.
_("L'église est vaste et haute.")_
[IV., June 29, 1839.]
The Church[1] is vast; its towering pride, its steeples loom on high; The bristling stones with leaf and flower are sculptured wondrously; The portal glows resplendent with its "rose," And 'neath the vault immense at evening swarm Figures of angel, saint, or demon's form, As oft a fearful world our dreams disclose. But not the huge Cathedral's height, nor yet its vault sublime, Nor porch, nor glass, nor streaks of light, nor shadows deep with time; Nor massy towers, that fascinate mine eyes; No, 'tis that spot--the mind's tranquillity-- Chamber wherefrom the song mounts cheerily, Placed like a joyful nest well nigh the skies.
Yea! glorious is the Church, I ween, but Meekness dwelleth here; Less do I love the lofty oak than mossy nest it bear; More dear is meadow breath than stormy wind: And when my mind for meditation's meant, The seaweed is preferred to the shore's extent,-- The swallow to the main it leaves behind.
_Author of "Critical Essays."_
[Footnote 1: The Cathedral Nôtre Dame of Paris, which is the scene of the author's romance, "Nôtre Dame."]
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.
_("O dix-huitième siècle!")_
[IV. vi]
O Eighteenth Century! by Heaven chastised! Godless thou livedst, by God thy doom was fixed. Thou in one ruin sword and sceptre mixed, Then outraged love, and pity's claim despised. Thy life a banquet--but its board a scaffold at the close, Where far from Christ's beatic reign, Satanic deeds arose! Thy writers, like thyself, by good men scorned-- Yet, from thy crimes, renown has decked thy name, As the smoke emplumes the furnace flame, A revolution's deeds have thine adorned!
_Author of "Critical Essays."_
STILL BE A CHILD.
_("O vous que votre âge défende")_
[IX., February, 1840.]
In youthful spirits wild, Smile, for all beams on thee; Sport, sing, be still the child, The flower, the honey-bee.
Bring not the future near, For Joy too soon declines-- What is man's mission here? Toil, where no sunlight shines!
Our lot is hard, we know; From eyes so gayly beaming, Whence rays of beauty flow, Salt tears most oft are streaming.
Free from emotions past, All joy and hope possessing, With mind in pureness cast, Sweet ignorance confessing.
Plant, safe from winds and showers, Heart with soft visions glowing, In childhood's happy hours A mother's rapture showing.
Loved by each anxious friend, No carking care within-- When summer gambols end, My winter sports begin.
Sweet poesy from heaven Around thy form is placed, A mother's beauty given, By father's thought is graced!
Seize, then, each blissful second, Live, for joy _sinks in night_, And those whose tale is reckoned, Have had their days of light.
Then, oh! before we part, The poet's blessing take, Ere bleeds that aged heart, Or child the woman make.
_Dublin University Magazine_.
THE POOL AND THE SOUL.
_("Comme dans les étangs.")_
[X., May, 1839.]
As in some stagnant pool by forest-side, In human souls two things are oft descried; The sky,--which tints the surface of the pool With all its rays, and all its shadows cool; The basin next,--where gloomy, dark and deep, Through slime and mud black reptiles vaguely creep.
R.F. HODGSON
YE MARINERS WHO SPREAD YOUR SAILS.
_("Matelôts, vous déploirez les voiles.")_
[XVI., May 5, 1839.]
Ye mariners! ye mariners! each sail to the breeze unfurled, In joy or sorrow still pursue your course around the world; And when the stars next sunset shine, ye anxiously will gaze Upon the shore, a friend or foe, as the windy quarter lays.
Ye envious souls, with spiteful tooth, the statue's base will bite; Ye birds will sing, ye bending boughs with verdure glad the sight; The ivy root in the stone entwined, will cause old gates to fall; The church-bell sound to work or rest the villagers will call.
Ye glorious oaks will still increase in solitude profound, Where the far west in distance lies as evening veils around; Ye willows, to the earth your arms in mournful trail will bend, And back again your mirror'd forms the water's surface send.
Ye nests will oscillate beneath the youthful progeny; Embraced in furrows of the earth the germing grain will lie; Ye lightning-torches still your streams will cast into the air, Which like a troubled spirit's course float wildly here and there.
Ye thunder-peals will God proclaim, as doth the ocean wave; Ye violets will nourish still the flower that April gave; Upon your ambient tides will be man's sternest shadow cast; Your waters ever will roll on when man himself is past.
All things that are, or being have, or those that mutely lie, Have each its course to follow out, or object to descry; Contributing its little share to that stupendous whole, Where with man's teeming race combined creation's wonders roll.
The poet, too, will contemplate th' Almighty Father's love, Who to our restless minds, with light and darkness from above, Hath given the heavens that glorious urn of tranquil majesty, Whence in unceasing stores we draw calm and serenity.
_Author of "Critical Essays."_
ON A FLEMISH WINDOW-PANE.
_("J'aime le carillon dans tes cités antiques.")_
[XVIII., August, 1837.]
Within thy cities of the olden time Dearly I love to list the ringing chime, Thou faithful guardian of domestic worth, Noble old Flanders! where the rigid North A flush of rich meridian glow doth feel, Caught from reflected suns of bright Castile. The chime, the clinking chime! To Fancy's eye-- Prompt her affections to personify-- It is the fresh and frolic hour, arrayed In guise of Andalusian dancing maid, Appealing by a crevice fine and rare, As of a door oped in "th' incorporal air." She comes! o'er drowsy roofs, inert and dull, Shaking her lap, of silv'ry music full, Rousing without remorse the drones abed, Tripping like joyous bird with tiniest tread, Quiv'ring like dart that trembles in the targe, By a frail crystal stair, whose viewless marge Bears her slight footfall, tim'rous half, yet free, In innocent extravagance of glee The graceful elf alights from out the spheres, While the quick spirit--thing of eyes and ears-- As now she goes, now comes, mounts, and anon Descends, those delicate degrees upon, Hears her melodious spirit from step to step run on.
_Fraser's Magazine_
THE PRECEPTOR.
_("Homme chauve et noir.")_
[XIX., May, 1839.]
A gruesome man, bald, clad in black, Who kept us youthful drudges in the track, Thinking it good for them to leave home care, And for a while a harsher yoke to bear; Surrender all the careless ease of home, And be forbid from schoolyard bounds to roam; For this with blandest smiles he softly asks That they with him will prosecute their tasks; Receives them in his solemn chilly lair, The rigid lot of discipline to share. At dingy desks they toil by day; at night To gloomy chambers go uncheered by light, Where pillars rudely grayed by rusty nail Of heavy hours reveal the weary tale; Where spiteful ushers grin, all pleased to make Long scribbled lines the price of each mistake. By four unpitying walls environed there The homesick students pace the pavements bare.
E.E. FREWER
GASTIBELZA.
_("Gastibelza, l'homme à la carabine.")_
[XXII., March, 1837.]
Gastibelza, with gun the measure beating, Would often sing: "Has one o' ye with sweet Sabine been meeting, As, gay, ye bring Your songs and steps which, by the music, Are reconciled-- Oh! this chill wind across the mountain rushing Will drive me wild!
"You stare as though you hardly knew my lady-- Sabine's her name! Her dam inhabits yonder cavern shady, A witch of shame, Who shrieks o' nights upon the Haunted Tower, With horrors piled-- Oh! this chill wind, etc.
"Sing on and leap--enjoying all the favors Good heaven sends; She, too, was young--her lips had peachy savors With honey blends; Give to that hag--not always old--a penny, Though crime-defiled-- Oh! this chill wind, etc.
"The queen beside her looked a wench uncomely, When, near to-night, She proudly stalked a-past the maids so homely, In bodice tight And collar old as reign of wicked Julian, By fiend beguiled-- Oh! this chill wind, etc.
"The king himself proclaimed her peerless beauty Before the court, And held it were to win a kiss his duty To give a fort, Or, more, to sign away all bright Dorado, Tho' gold-plate tiled-- Oh! this chill wind, etc.
"Love her? at least, I know I am most lonely Without her nigh; I'm but a hound to follow her, and only At her feet die. I'd gayly spend of toilsome years a dozen-- A felon styled-- Oh! this chill wind, etc.
"One summer day when long--so long? I'd missed her, She came anew, To play i' the fount alone but for her sister, And bared to view The finest, rosiest, most tempting ankle, Like that of child-- Oh! this chill wind, etc.
"When I beheld her, I--a lowly shepherd-- Grew in my mind Till I was Caesar--she that crownèd leopard He crouched behind, No Roman stern, but in her silken leashes A captive mild-- Oh! this chill wind, etc.
"Yet dance and sing, tho' night be thickly falling;-- In selfsame time Poor Sabine heard in ecstasy the calling, In winning rhyme, Of Saldane's earl so noble, ay, and wealthy, Name e'er reviled-- Oh! this chill wind, etc.
"(Let me upon this bench be shortly resting, So weary, I!) That noble bore her smiling, unresisting, By yonder high And ragged road that snakes towards the summit Where crags are piled-- Oh! this chill wind, etc.
"I saw her pass beside my lofty station-- A glance--'twas all! And yet I loathe my daily honest ration, The air's turned gall! My soul's in chase, my body chafes to wander-- My dagger's filed-- Oh! this chill wind may change, and o'er the mountain May drive me wild!"
HENRY L. WILLIAMS.
GUITAR SONG.
_("Comment, disaient-ils.")_
[XXIII., July 18, 1838.]
How shall we flee sorrow--flee sorrow? said he. How, how! How shall we flee sorrow--flee sorrow? said he. How--how--how? answered she.
How shall we see pleasure--see pleasure? said he. How, how! How shall we see pleasure--see pleasure? said he. Dream--dream--dream! answered she.
How shall we be happy--be happy? said he. How, how! How shall we be happy--be happy? said he. Love--love--love! whispered she.
EVELYN JERROLD
COME WHEN I SLEEP.
_("Oh, quand je dors.")_
[XXVII.]
Oh! when I sleep, come near my resting-place, As Laura came to bless her poet's heart, And let thy breath in passing touch my face-- At once a space My lips will part.
And on my brow where too long weighed supreme A vision--haply spent now--black as night, Let thy look as a star arise and beam-- At once my dream Will seem of light.
Then press my lips, where plays a flame of bliss-- A pure and holy love-light--and forsake The angel for the woman in a kiss-- At once, I wis, My soul will wake!
WM. W. TOMLINSON.
EARLY LOVE REVISITED.
_("O douleur! j'ai voulu savoir.")_
[XXXIV. i., October, 183-.]
I have wished in the grief of my heart to know If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear, And to see what this beautiful valley could show Of all that was once to my soul most dear. In how short a span doth all Nature change, How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene-- And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range, The links that bound our hearts to the scene.
Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste; The fir is felled that our names once bore; Our rows of roses, by urchins' haste, Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er. The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride, She so gayly drank, from the wood descending; In her fairy hand was transformed the tide, And it turned to pearls through her fingers wending
The wild, rugged path is paved with spars, Where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced, When so small were the prints that the surface mars, That they seemed _to smile_ ere by mine effaced. The bank on the side of the road, day by day, Where of old she awaited my loved approach, Is now become the traveller's way To avoid the track of the thundering coach.
Here the forest contracts, there the mead extends, Of all that was ours, there is little left-- Like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds, Of all souvenirs is the place bereft. Do we live no more--is our hour then gone? Will it give back naught to our hungry cry? The breeze answers my call with a mocking tone, The house that was mine makes no reply.
True! others shall pass, as we have passed, As we have come, so others shall meet, And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste, Shall others continue, but never complete. For none upon earth can achieve his scheme, The best as the worst are futile here: We awake at the selfsame point cf the dream-- All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.
Yes! others shall come in the bloom of the heart, To enjoy in this pure and happy retreat, All that nature to timid love can impart Of solemn repose and communion sweet. In _our_ fields, in _our_ paths, shall strangers stray, In _thy_ wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost, And other fair forms in the stream shall play Which of old thy delicate feet have crossed.
_Author of "Critical Essays."_
SWEET MEMORY OF LOVE.
_("Toutes les passions s'éloignent avec l'âge.")_
[XXXIV. ii., October, 183-.]
As life wanes on, the passions slow depart, One with his grinning mask, one with his steel; Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art, Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill. But naught can Love's all charming power efface, That light, our misty tracks suspended o'er, In joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace, The young may curse thee, but the old adore.
But when the weight of years bow down the head, And man feels all his energies decline, His projects gone, himself tomb'd with the dead, Where virtues lie, nor more illusions shine, When all our lofty thoughts dispersed and o'er, We count within our hearts so near congealed, Each grief that's past, each dream, exhausted ore! As counting dead upon the battle-field.
As one who walks by the lamp's flickering blaze, Far from the hum of men, the joys of earth-- Our mind arrives at last by tortuous ways, At that drear gulf where but despair has birth. E'en there, amid the darkness of that night, When all seems closing round in empty air, Is seen through thickening gloom one trembling light! 'Tis Love's sweet memory that lingers there!
_Author of "Critical Essays."_
THE MARBLE FAUN.
_("Il semblait grelotter.")_
[XXXVI., December, 1837.]
He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen. 'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass Of leafless branches, with a blackened back And a green foot--an isolated Faun In old deserted park, who, bending forward, Half-merged himself in the entangled boughs, Half in his marble settings. He was there, Pensive, and bound to earth; and, as all things Devoid of movement, he was there--forgotten.
Trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts-- Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird, And, like himself, grown old in that same place. Through the dark network of their undergrowth, Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown. Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist. This--nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood.
Poor, helpless marble, how I've pitied it! Less often man--the harder of the two.
So, then, without a word that might offend His ear deformed--for well the marble hears The voice of thought--I said to him: "You hail From the gay amorous age. O Faun, what saw you When you were happy? Were you of the Court?
"Speak to me, comely Faun, as you would speak To tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass. Have you, O Greek, O mocker of old days, Have you not sometimes with that oblique eye Winked at the Farnese Hercules?--Alone, Have you, O Faun, considerately turned From side to side when counsel-seekers came, And now advised as shepherd, now as satyr?-- Have you sometimes, upon this very bench, Seen, at mid-day, Vincent de Paul instilling Grace into Gondi?--Have you ever thrown That searching glance on Louis with Fontange, On Anne with Buckingham; and did they not Start, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forth From corner of the wood?--Was your advice As to the thyrsis or the ivy asked, When, in grand ballet of fantastic form, God Phoebus, or God Pan, and all his court, Turned the fair head of the proud Montespan, Calling her Amaryllis?--La Fontaine, Flying the courtiers' ears of stone, came he, Tears on his eyelids, to reveal to you The sorrows of his nymphs of Vaux?--What said Boileau to you--to you--O lettered Faun, Who once with Virgil, in the Eclogue, held That charming dialogue?--Say, have you seen Young beauties sporting on the sward?--Have you Been honored with a sight of Molière In dreamy mood?--Has he perchance, at eve, When here the thinker homeward went, has he, Who--seeing souls all naked--could not fear Your nudity, in his inquiring mind, Confronted you with Man?"
Under the thickly-tangled branches, thus Did I speak to him; he no answer gave.
I shook my head, and moved myself away; Then, from the copses, and from secret caves Hid in the wood, methought a ghostly voice Came forth and woke an echo in my souls As in the hollow of an amphora.
"Imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say, "What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken Fauns In peace beneath their trees! Dost thou not know, Poet, that ever it is impious deemed, In desert spots where drowsy shades repose-- Though love itself might prompt thee--to shake down The moss that hangs from ruined centuries, And, with the vain noise of throe ill-timed words, To mar the recollections of the dead?"
Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist I hurried, dreaming of the vanished days, And still behind me--hieroglyph obscure Of antique alphabet--the lonely Faun Held to his laughter, through the falling night.
I went my way; but yet--in saddened spirit Pondering on all that had my vision crossed, Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time-- Through all, at distance, would my fancy see, In the woods, statues; shadows in the past!
WILLIAM YOUNG
A LOVE FOR WINGED THINGS.
[XXXVII., April 12, 1840.]
My love flowed e'er for things with wings. When boy I sought for forest fowl, And caged them in rude rushes' mesh, And fed them with my breakfast roll; So that, though fragile were the door, They rarely fled, and even then Would flutter back at faintest call!
Man-grown, I charm for men.
BABY'S SEASIDE GRAVE.
_("Vieux lierre, frais gazon.")_
[XXXVIII., 1840.]
Brown ivy old, green herbage new; Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle; An ancient chapel where a crew, Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle. A far-off forest's darkling frown, Which makes the prudent start and tremble, Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down, And clouds in demon hordes assemble.
Land birds which twit the mews that scream Round walls where lolls the languid lizard; Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream Past caves fit for an ocean wizard. Alow, aloft, no lull--all life, But far aside its whirls are keeping, As wishfully to let its strife Spare still the mother vainly weeping O'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping.
LES CHÂTIMENTS.--1853.
INDIGNATION!
_("Toi qu'aimais Juvénal.")_
[Nox (PRELUDE) ix., Jersey, November, 1852.]
Thou who loved Juvenal, and filed His style so sharp to scar imperial brows, And lent the lustre lightening The gloom in Dante's murky verse that flows-- Muse Indignation! haste, and help My building up before this roseate realm, And its so fruitless victories, Whence transient shame Right's prophets overwhelm, So many pillories, deserved! That eyes to come will pry without avail, Upon the wood impenetrant, And spy no glimmer of its tarnished tale.
IMPERIAL REVELS.
_("Courtisans! attablés dans le splendide orgie.")_
[Bk. I. x., Jersey, December, 1852.]
Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread-- The board that groans with shame and plate, Still fawning to the sham-crowned head That hopes front brazen turneth fate! Drink till the comer last is full, And never hear in revels' lull, Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet, Whilst I gnaw at the crust Of Exile in the dust-- But _Honor_ makes it sweet!
Ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane, Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief, In blazing _cafés_ spend the gain, But draw the blind, lest at _his_ thief Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance And interrupts with steel the dance! But let him toilsomely tramp by, As I myself afar Follow no gilded car In ways of _Honesty_.
Ye troopers who shot mothers down, And marshals whose brave cannonade Broke infant arms and split the stone Where slumbered age and guileless maid-- Though blood is in the cup you fill, Pretend it "rosy" wine, and still Hail Cannon "King!" and Steel the "Queen!" But I prefer to sup From Philip Sidney's cup-- True soldier's draught serene.
Oh, workmen, seen by me sublime, When from the tyrant wrenched ye peace, Can you be dazed by tinselled crime, And spy no wolf beneath the fleece? Build palaces where Fortunes feast, And bear your loads like well-trained beast, Though once such masters you made flee! But then, like me, you ate Food of a blessed _fête_-- The bread of _Liberty_!
H.L.W.
POOR LITTLE CHILDREN.
_("La femelle! elle est morte.")_
[Bk. I. xiii., Jersey, February, 1853.]
Mother birdie stiff and cold, Puss has hushed the other's singing; Winds go whistling o'er the wold,-- Empty nest in sport a-flinging. Poor little birdies!
Faithless shepherd strayed afar, Playful dog the gadflies catching; Wolves bound boldly o'er the bar, Not a friend the fold is watching-- Poor little lambkins!
Father into prison fell, Mother begging through the parish; Baby's cot they, too, will sell,-- Who will now feed, clothe and cherish? Poor little children!
APOSTROPHE TO NATURE.
_("O Soleil!")_
[Bk. II. iv., Anniversary of the Coup d'État, 1852.]
O Sun! thou countenance divine! Wild flowers of the glen, Caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine Has pierced not, far from men; Ye sacred hills and antique rocks, Ye oaks that worsted time, Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks Hurl up in storms sublime; And sky above, unruflfed blue, Chaste rills that alway ran From stainless source a course still true, What think ye of this man?
NAPOLEON "THE LITTLE."
_("Ah! tu finiras bien par hurler!")_
[Bk. III. ii., Jersey, August, 1852.]
How well I knew this stealthy wolf would howl, When in the eagle talons ta'en in air! Aglow, I snatched thee from thy prey--thou fowl-- I held thee, abject conqueror, just where All see the stigma of a fitting name As deeply red as deeply black thy shame! And though thy matchless impudence may frame Some mask of seeming courage--spite thy sneer, And thou assurest sloth and skunk: "It does not smart!" Thou feel'st it burning, in and in,--and fear None will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart!
FACT OR FABLE?
(BISMARCK AND NAPOLEON III.)
_("Un jour, sentant un royal appétit.")_
[Bk. III. iii., Jersey, September, 1852.]
One fasting day, itched by his appetite, A monkey took a fallen tiger's hide, And, where the wearer had been savage, tried To overpass his model. Scratch and bite Gave place, however, to mere gnash of teeth and screams, But, as he prowled, he made his hearers fly With crying often: "See the Terror of your dreams!" Till, for too long, none ventured thither nigh. Left undisturbed to snatch, and clog his brambled den, With sleepers' bones and plumes of daunted doves, And other spoil of beasts as timid as the men, Who shrank when he mock-roared, from glens and groves-- He begged his fellows view the crannies crammed with pelf Sordid and tawdry, stained and tinselled things, As ample proof he was the Royal Tiger's self! Year in, year out, thus still he purrs and sings Till tramps a butcher by--he risks his head-- In darts the hand and crushes out the yell, And plucks the hide--as from a nut the shell-- He holds him nude, and sneers: "An ape you dread!"
H.L.W.
A LAMENT.
_("Sentiers où l'herbe se balance.")_
[Bk. III. xi., July, 1853.]
O paths whereon wild grasses wave! O valleys! hillsides! forests hoar! Why are ye silent as the grave? For One, who came, and comes no more!
Why is thy window closed of late? And why thy garden in its sear? O house! where doth thy master wait? I only know he is not here.
Good dog! thou watchest; yet no hand Will feed thee. In the house is none. Whom weepest thou? child! My father. And O wife! whom weepest thou? The Gone.
Where is he gone? Into the dark.-- O sad, and ever-plaining surge! Whence art thou? From the convict-bark. And why thy mournful voice? A dirge.
EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.
NO ASSASSINATION.
_("Laissons le glaive à Rome.")_
[Bk. III. xvi., October, 1852.]
Pray Rome put up her poniard! And Sparta sheathe the sword; Be none too prompt to punish, And cast indignant word! Bear back your spectral Brutus From robber Bonaparte; Time rarely will refute us Who doom the hateful heart.
Ye shall be o'ercontented, My banished mates from home, But be no rashness vented Ere time for joy shall come. No crime can outspeed Justice, Who, resting, seems delayed-- Full faith accord the angel Who points the patient blade.
The traitor still may nestle In balmy bed of state, But mark the Warder, watching His guardsman at his gate. He wears the crown, a monarch-- Of knaves and stony hearts; But though they're blessed by Senates, None can escape the darts!
Though shored by spear and crozier, All know the arrant cheat, And shun the square of pavement Uncertain at his feet! Yea, spare the wretch, each brooding And secret-leaguers' chief, And make no pistol-target Of stars upon the thief.
The knell of God strikes seldom But in the aptest hour; And when the life is sweetest, The worm will feel His power!
THE DESPATCH OF THE DOOM.
_("Pendant que dans l'auberge.")_
[Bk. IV. xiii., Jersey, November, 1852.]
While in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink, Upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink? Yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring sturdy steed, A mute and grisly rider is trampling grass and weed, And by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear, I known it is _the Future_--God's Justicer is here!
THE SEAMAN'S SONG.
_("Adieu, patrie.")_
[Bk. V. ix., Aug. 1, 1852.]
Farewell the strand, The sails expand Above! Farewell the land We love! Farewell, old home where apples swing! Farewell, gay song-birds on the wing!
Farewell, riff-raff Of Customs' clerks who laugh And shout: "Farewell!" We'll quaff One bout To thee, young lass, with kisses sweet! Farewell, my dear--the ship flies fleet!
The fog shuts out the last fond peep, As 'neath the prow the cast drops weep. Farewell, old home, young lass, the bird! The whistling wind alone is heard: Farewell! Farewell!
THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW.
_("Il neigeait.")_
[Bk. V. xiii., Nov. 25-30, 1852.]
It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red! For once the eagle was hanging its head. Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black. The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain. Nor chief nor banner in order could keep, The wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep. The wings from centre could hardly be known Through snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown, Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn: Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad. The shells and bullets came down with the snow As though the heavens hated these poor troops below. Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold, Who ne'er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold Marched stern; to grizzled moustache hoarfrost clung 'Neath banners that in leaden masses hung.
It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breeze Whistled upon the glassy endless seas, Where naked feet on, on for ever went, With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent. They were not living troops as seen in war, But merely phantoms of a dream, afar In darkness wandering, amid the vapor dim,-- A mystery; of shadows a procession grim, Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim. Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold, A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense, A shroud of magnitude for host immense; Till every one felt as if left alone In a wide wilderness where no light shone, To die, with pity none, and none to see That from this mournful realm none should get free. Their foes the frozen North and Czar--That, worst. Cannon were broken up in haste accurst To burn the frames and make the pale fire high, Where those lay down who never woke or woke to die. Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread.
'Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised O'er regiments. And History, amazed, Could not record the ruin of this retreat, Unlike a downfall known before or the defeat Of Hannibal--reversed and wrapped in gloom! Of Attila, when nations met their doom! Perished an army--fled French glory then, Though there the Emperor! he stood and gazed At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw-- He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe. Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love Kept those that rose all dastard fear above, As on his tent they saw his shadow pass-- Backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas! His fortune's star! it could not, could not be That he had not his work to do--a destiny? To hurl him headlong from his high estate, Would be high treason in his bondman, Fate. But all the while he felt himself alone, Stunned with disasters few have ever known. Sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul, What more was written on the Future's scroll? Was this an expiation? It must be, yea! He turned to God for one enlightening ray. "Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?" he sighed, But the first murmur on his parched lips died. "Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?" A pause: his name was called; of flame a jet Sprang in the darkness;--a Voice answered; "No! Not yet."
Outside still fell the smothering snow. Was it a voice indeed? or but a dream? It was the vulture's, but how like the _sea-bird's scream._
TORU DUTT.
THE OCEAN'S SONG.
_("Nous nous promenions à Rozel-Tower.")_
[Bk. VI. iv., October, 1852.]
We walked amongst the ruins famed in story Of Rozel-Tower, And saw the boundless waters stretch in glory And heave in power.
O ocean vast! we heard thy song with wonder, Whilst waves marked time. "Appeal, O Truth!" thou sang'st with tone of thunder, "And shine sublime!
"The world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles,-- To despots sold, Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles, The Right uphold.
"Be born; arise; o'er earth and wild waves bounding Peoples and suns! Let darkness vanish;--tocsins be resounding, And flash, ye guns!
"And you,--who love no pomps of fog, or glamour, Who fear no shocks, Brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamor, Exiles--the rocks!"
TORU DUTT
THE TRUMPETS OF THE MIND.
_("Sonnez, clairons de la pensée!")_
[Bk. VII. i., March 19, 1853.]
Sound, sound for ever, Clarions of Thought!
When Joshua 'gainst the high-walled city fought, He marched around it with his banner high, His troops in serried order following nigh, But not a sword was drawn, no shaft outsprang, Only the trumpets the shrill onset rang. At the first blast, smiled scornfully the king, And at the second sneered, half wondering: "Hop'st thou with noise my stronghold to break down?" At the third round, the ark of old renown Swept forward, still the trumpets sounding loud, And then the troops with ensigns waving proud. Stepped out upon the old walls children dark With horns to mock the notes and hoot the ark. At the fourth turn, braving the Israelites, Women appeared upon the crenelated heights-- Those battlements embrowned with age and rust-- And hurled upon the Hebrews stones and dust, And spun and sang when weary of the game. At the fifth circuit came the blind and lame, And with wild uproar clamorous and high Railed at the clarion ringing to the sky. At the sixth time, upon a tower's tall crest, So high that there the eagle built his nest, So hard that on it lightning lit in vain, Appeared in merriment the king again: "These Hebrew Jews musicians are, meseems!" He scoffed, loud laughing, "but they live on dreams." The princes laughed submissive to the king, Laughed all the courtiers in their glittering ring, And thence the laughter spread through all the town.
At the seventh blast--the city walls fell down.
TORU DUTT.
AFTER THE COUP D'ÊTAT.
_("Devant les trahisons.")_
[Bk. VII, xvi., Jersey, Dec. 2, 1852.]
Before foul treachery and heads hung down, I'll fold my arms, indignant but serene. Oh! faith in fallen things--be thou my crown, My force, my joy, my prop on which I lean:
Yes, whilst _he's_ there, or struggle some or fall, O France, dear France, for whom I weep in vain. Tomb of my sires, nest of my loves--my all, I ne'er shall see thee with these eyes again.
I shall not see thy sad, sad sounding shore, France, save my duty, I shall all forget; Amongst the true and tried, I'll tug my oar, And rest proscribed to brand the fawning set.
O bitter exile, hard, without a term, Thee I accept, nor seek nor care to know Who have down-truckled 'mid the men deemed firm, And who have fled that should have fought the foe.
If true a thousand stand, with them I stand; A hundred? 'tis enough: we'll Sylla brave; Ten? put my name down foremost in the band; One?--well, alone--until I find my grave.
TORU DUTT.
PATRIA.[1]
_("Là-haut, qui sourit.")_
[Bk. VII. vii., September, 1853.]
Who smiles there? Is it A stray spirit, Or woman fair? Sombre yet soft the brow! Bow, nations, bow; O soul in air, Speak--what art thou?
In grief the fair face seems-- What means those sudden gleams? Our antique pride from dreams Starts up, and beams Its conquering glance,-- To make our sad hearts dance, And wake in woods hushed long The wild bird's song. Angel of Day! Our Hope, Love, Stay, Thy countenance Lights land and sea Eternally, Thy name is France Or Verity.
Fair angel in thy glass When vile things move or pass, Clouds in the skies amass; Terrible, alas! Thy stern commands are then: "Form your battalions, men, The flag display!" And all obey. Angel of might Sent kings to smite, The words in dark skies glance, "Mené, Mené," hiss Bolts that never miss! Thy name is France, Or Nemesis.
As halcyons in May, O nations, in his ray Float and bask for aye, Nor know decay! One arm upraised to heaven Seals the past forgiven; One holds a sword To quell hell's horde, Angel of God! Thy wings stretch broad As heaven's expanse! To shield and free Humanity! Thy name is France, Or Liberty!
[Footnote 1: Written to music by Beethoven.]
THE UNIVERSAL REPUBLIC.
_("Temps futurs.")_
[Part "Lux," Jersey, Dec. 16-20, 1853.]
O vision of the coming time! When man has 'scaped the trackless slime And reached the desert spring; When sands are crossed, the sward invites The worn to rest 'mid rare delights And gratefully to sing.
E'en now the eye that's levelled high, Though dimly, can the hope espy So solid soon, one day; For every chain must then be broke, And hatred none will dare evoke, And June shall scatter May.
E'en now amid our misery The germ of Union many see, And through the hedge of thorn, Like to a bee that dawn awakes, On, Progress strides o'er shattered stakes, With solemn, scathing scorn.
Behold the blackness shrink, and flee! Behold the world rise up so free Of coroneted things! Whilst o'er the distant youthful States, Like Amazonian bosom-plates, Spread Freedom's shielding wings.
Ye, liberated lands, we hail! Your sails are whole despite the gale! Your masts are firm, and will not fail-- The triumph follows pain! Hear forges roar! the hammer clanks-- It beats the time to nations' thanks-- At last, a _peaceful_ strain!
'Tis rust, not gore, that gnaws the guns, And shattered shells are but the runs Where warring insects cope; And all the headsman's racks and blades And pincers, tools of tyrants' aids, Are buried with the rope.
Upon the sky-line glows i' the dark The Sun that now is but a spark; But soon will be unfurled-- The glorious banner of us all, The flag that rises ne'er to fall, Republic of the World!
LES CONTEMPLATIONS.--1830-56.
THE VALE TO YOU, TO ME THE HEIGHTS.
A FABLE.
[Bk. III. vi., October, 1846.]
A lion camped beside a spring, where came the Bird Of Jove to drink: When, haply, sought two kings, without their courtier herd, The moistened brink, Beneath the palm--_they_ always tempt pugnacious hands-- Both travel-sore; But quickly, on the recognition, out flew brands Straight to each core; As dying breaths commingle, o'er them rose the call Of Eagle shrill: "Yon crownèd couple, who supposed the world too small, Now one grave fill! Chiefs blinded by your rage! each bleachèd sapless bone Becomes a pipe Through which siroccos whistle, trodden 'mong the stone By quail and snipe. Folly's liege-men, what boots such murd'rous raid, And mortal feud? I, Eagle, dwell as friend with Leo--none afraid-- In solitude: At the same pool we bathe and quaff in placid mood. Kings, he and I; For I to him leave prairie, desert sands and wood, And he to me the sky."
H.L.W.
CHILDHOOD.
_("L'enfant chantait.")_
[Bk. I. xxiii., Paris, January, 1835.]
The small child sang; the mother, outstretched on the low bed, With anguish moaned,--fair Form pain should possess not long; For, ever nigher, Death hovered around her head: I hearkened there this moan, and heard even there that song.
The child was but five years, and, close to the lattice, aye Made a sweet noise with games and with his laughter bright; And the wan mother, aside this being the livelong day Carolling joyously, coughed hoarsely all the night.
The mother went to sleep 'mong them that sleep alway; And the blithe little lad began anew to sing... Sorrow is like a fruit: God doth not therewith weigh Earthward the branch strong yet but for the blossoming.
NELSON R. TYERMAN.
SATIRE ON THE EARTH.
_("Une terre au flanc maigre.")_
[Bk. III. xi., October, 1840.]
A clod with rugged, meagre, rust-stained, weather-worried face, Where care-filled creatures tug and delve to keep a worthless race; And glean, begrudgedly, by all their unremitting toil, Sour, scanty bread and fevered water from the ungrateful soil; Made harder by their gloom than flints that gash their harried hands, And harder in the things they call their hearts than wolfish bands, Perpetuating faults, inventing crimes for paltry ends, And yet, perversest beings! hating Death, their best of friends! Pride in the powerful no more, no less than in the poor; Hatred in both their bosoms; love in one, or, wondrous! two! Fog in the valleys; on the mountains snowfields, ever new, That only melt to send down waters for the liquid hell, In which, their strongest sons and fairest daughters vilely fell! No marvel, Justice, Modesty dwell far apart and high, Where they can feebly hear, and, rarer, answer victims' cry. At both extremes, unflinching frost, the centre scorching hot; Land storms that strip the orchards nude, leave beaten grain to rot; Oceans that rise with sudden force to wash the bloody land, Where War, amid sob-drowning cheers, claps weapons in each hand. And this to those who, luckily, abide afar-- This is, ha! ha! _a star_!
HOW BUTTERFLIES ARE BORN.
_("Comme le matin rit sur les roses.")_
[Bk. I. xii.]
The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses--lo, the little lovers-- That kiss the buds and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings That go and come, and fly, and peep, and hide With muffled music, murmured far and wide! Ah, Springtime, when we think of all the lays That dreamy lovers send to dreamy Mays, Of the proud hearts within a billet bound, Of all the soft silk paper that men wound, The messages of love that mortals write, Filled with intoxication of delight, Written in April, and before the Maytime Shredded and flown, playthings for the winds' playtime. We dream that all white butterflies above, Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, And leave their lady mistress to despair, To flirt with flowers, as tender and more fair, Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.
A. LANG.
HAVE YOU NOTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?
_("Si vous n'avez rien à me dire.")_
[Bk. II. iv., May, 18--.]
Speak, if you love me, gentle maiden! Or haunt no more my lone retreat. If not for me thy heart be laden, Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?
Ah! tell me why so mute, fair maiden, Whene'er as thus so oft we meet? If not for me thy heart be, Aideen, Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?
Why, when my hand unconscious pressing, Still keep untold the maiden dream? In fancy thou art thus caressing The while we wander by the stream.
If thou art pained when I am near thee, Why in my path so often stray? For in my heart I love yet fear thee, And fain would fly, yet fondly stay.
C.H. KENNY.
INSCRIPTION FOR A CRUCIFIX.[1]
_("Vous qui pleurez, venez à ce Dieu.")_
[Bk. III. iv., March, 1842.]
Ye weepers, the Mourner o'er mourners behold! Ye wounded, come hither--the Healer enfold! Ye gloomy ones, brighten 'neath smiles quelling care-- Or pass--for _this_ Comfort is found ev'rywhere.
[Footnote 1: Music by Gounod.]
DEATH, IN LIFE.
_("Ceux-ci partent.")_
[Bk. III. v., February, 1843.]
We pass--these sleep Beneath the shade where deep-leaved boughs Bend o'er the furrows the Great Reaper ploughs, And gentle summer winds in many sweep Whirl in eddying waves The dead leaves o'er the graves.
And the living sigh: Forgotten ones, so soon your memories die. Ye never more may list the wild bird's song, Or mingle in the crowded city-throng. Ye must ever dwell in gloom, 'Mid the silence of the tomb.
And the dead reply: God giveth us His life. Ye die, Your barren lives are tilled with tears, For glory, ye are clad with fears. Oh, living ones! oh, earthly shades! We live; your beauty clouds and fades.
THE DYING CHILD TO ITS MOTHER.
_("Oh! vous aurez trop dit.")_
[Bk. III. xiv., April, 1843.]
Ah, you said too often to your angel There are other angels in the sky-- There, where nothing changes, nothing suffers, Sweet it were to enter in on high.
To that dome on marvellous pilasters, To that tent roofed o'er with colored bars, That blue garden full of stars like lilies, And of lilies beautiful as stars.
And you said it was a place most joyous, All our poor imaginings above, With the wingèd cherubim for playmates, And the good God evermore to love.
Sweet it were to dwell there in all seasons, Like a taper burning day and night, Near to the child Jesus and the Virgin, In that home so beautiful and bright.
But you should have told him, hapless mother, Told your child so frail and gentle too, That you were all his in life's beginning, But that also he belonged to you.
For the mother watches o'er the infant, He must rise up in her latter days, She will need the man that was her baby To stand by her when her strength decays.
Ah, you did not tell enough your darling That God made us in this lower life, Woman for the man, and man for woman, In our pains, our pleasures and our strife.
So that one sad day, O loss, O sorrow! The sweet creature left you all alone; 'Twas your own hand hung the cage door open, Mother, and your pretty bird is flown.
BP. ALEXANDER.
EPITAPH.
_("Il vivait, il jouait.")_
[Bk. III. xv., May, 1843.]
He lived and ever played, the tender smiling thing. What need, O Earth, to have plucked this flower from blossoming? Hadst thou not then the birds with rainbow-colors bright, The stars and the great woods, the wan wave, the blue sky? What need to have rapt this child from her thou hadst placed him by-- Beneath those other flowers to have hid this flower from sight?
Because of this one child thou hast no more of might, O star-girt Earth, his death yields thee not higher delight! But, ah! the mother's heart with woe for ever wild, This heart whose sovran bliss brought forth so bitter birth-- This world as vast as thou, even _thou_, O sorrowless Earth, Is desolate and void because of this one child!
NELSON K. TYERMAN.
ST. JOHN.
_("Un jour, le morne esprit.")_
[Bk. VI. vii., Jersey, September, 1855.]
One day, the sombre soul, the Prophet most sublime At Patmos who aye dreamed, And tremblingly perused, without the vast of Time, Words that with hell-fire gleamed,
Said to his eagle: "Bird, spread wings for loftiest flight-- Needs must I see His Face!" The eagle soared. At length, far beyond day and night, Lo! the all-sacred Place!
And John beheld the Way whereof no angel knows The name, nor there hath trod; And, lo! the Place fulfilled with shadow that aye glows Because of very God.
NELSON R. TYERMAN.
THE POET'S SIMPLE FAITH.
You say, "Where goest thou?" I cannot tell, And still go on. If but the way be straight, It cannot go amiss! before me lies Dawn and the Day; the Night behind me; that Suffices me; I break the bounds; I _see_, And nothing more; _believe_, and nothing less. My future is not one of my concerns.
PROF. E. DOWDEN.
I AM CONTENT.
_("J'habite l'ombre.")_
[1855.]
True; I dwell lone, Upon sea-beaten cape, Mere raft of stone; Whence all escape Save one who shrinks not from the gloom, And will not take the coward's leap i' the tomb.
My bedroom rocks With breezes; quakes in storms, When dangling locks Of seaweed mock the forms Of straggling clouds that trail o'erhead Like tresses from disrupted coffin-lead.
Upon the sky Crape palls are often nailed With stars. Mine eye Has scared the gull that sailed To blacker depths with shrillest scream, Still fainter, till like voices in a dream.
My days become More plaintive, wan, and pale, While o'er the foam I see, borne by the gale, Infinity! in kindness sent-- To find me ever saying: "I'm content!"
LA LÉGENDE DES SIÈCLES.
CAIN.
_("Lorsque avec ses enfants Cain se fût enfui.")_
[Bk. II]
Then, with his children, clothed in skins of brutes, Dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm, Cain fled before Jehovah. As night fell The dark man reached a mount in a great plain, And his tired wife and his sons, out of breath, Said: "Let us lie down on the earth and sleep." Cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot. Raising his head, in that funereal heaven He saw an eye, a great eye, in the night Open, and staring at him in the gloom. "I am too near," he said, and tremblingly woke up His sleeping sons again, and his tired wife, And fled through space and darkness. Thirty days He went, and thirty nights, nor looked behind; Pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound; No rest, no sleep, till he attained the strand Where the sea washes that which since was Asshur. "Here pause," he said, "for this place is secure; Here may we rest, for this is the world's end." And he sat down; when, lo! in the sad sky, The selfsame Eye on the horizon's verge, And the wretch shook as in an ague fit. "Hide me!" he cried; and all his watchful sons, Their finger on their lip, stared at their sire. Cain said to Jabal (father of them that dwell In tents): "Spread here the curtain of thy tent," And they spread wide the floating canvas roof, And made it fast and fixed it down with lead. "You see naught now," said Zillah then, fair child The daughter of his eldest, sweet as day. But Cain replied, "That Eye--I see it still." And Jubal cried (the father of all those That handle harp and organ): "I will build A sanctuary;" and he made a wall of bronze, And set his sire behind it. But Cain moaned, "That Eye is glaring at me ever." Henoch cried: "Then must we make a circle vast of towers, So terrible that nothing dare draw near; Build we a city with a citadel; Build we a city high and close it fast." Then Tubal Cain (instructor of all them That work in brass and iron) built a tower-- Enormous, superhuman. While he wrought, His fiery brothers from the plain around Hunted the sons of Enoch and of Seth; They plucked the eyes out of whoever passed, And hurled at even arrows to the stars. They set strong granite for the canvas wall, And every block was clamped with iron chains. It seemed a city made for hell. Its towers, With their huge masses made night in the land. The walls were thick as mountains. On the door They graved: "Let not God enter here." This done, And having finished to cement and build In a stone tower, they set him in the midst. To him, still dark and haggard, "Oh, my sire, Is the Eye gone?" quoth Zillah tremblingly. But Cain replied: "Nay, it is even there." Then added: "I will live beneath the earth, As a lone man within his sepulchre. I will see nothing; will be seen of none." They digged a trench, and Cain said: "'Tis enow," As he went down alone into the vault; But when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair, And they had closed the dungeon o'er his head, The Eye was in the tomb and fixed on Cain.
_Dublin University Magazine_
BOAZ ASLEEP.
_("Booz s'était couché.")_
[Bk. II. vi.]
At work within his barn since very early, Fairly tired out with toiling all the day, Upon the small bed where he always lay Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.
Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well, Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.
His beard was silver, as in April all A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook. When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look, Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall."
He walked his way of life straight on and plain, With justice clothed, like linen white and clean, And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween, Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain.
Good master, faithful friend, in his estate Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth He won regard of woman, for in sooth The young man may be fair--the old man's great.
Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright, The old man entereth, the day eterne; And in the young man's eye a flame may burn, But in the old man's eye one seeth light.
As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided, Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided A fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep.
And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad, Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain. His race ran up it far, like a long chain; Below it sung a king, above it died a God.
Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart, "The number of my years is past fourscore: How may this be? I have not any more, Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part.
"In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine; And she, half living, I half dead within, Our beings still commingle and are twin, It cannot be that I should found a line!
"Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound From night, as from a victory. But such A trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round.
"I bow myself to death, as lone to meet The water bow their fronts athirst." He said. The cedar feeleth not the rose's head, Nor he the woman's presence at his feet!
For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth Lay at his feet, expectant of his waking. He knowing not what sweet guile she was making; She knowing not what God would have in sooth.
Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring-- Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast The angels sped, for momently there passed A something blue which seemed to be a wing.
Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur-- The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows. Far west among those flowers of the shadows. The thin clear crescent lustrous over her,
Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comer Unto the harvest of the eternal summer, Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.
BP. ALEXANDER.
SONG OF THE GERMAN LANZKNECHT
_("Sonnex, clarions!")_
[Bk. VI. vii.]
Flourish the trumpet! and rattle the drum! The _Reiters_ are mounted! the Reiters will come!
When our bullets cease singing And long swords cease ringing On backplates of fearsomest foes in full flight, We'll dig up their dollars To string for girls' collars-- They'll jingle around them before it is night! When flourish the trumpets, etc.
We're the Emperor's winners Of right royal dinners, Where cities are served up and flanked by estates, While we wallow in claret, Knowing not how to spare it, Though beer is less likely to muddle our pates-- While flourish the trumpets, etc.
Gods of battle! red-handed! Wise it was to have banded Such arms as are these for embracing of gain! Hearken to each war-vulture Crying, "Down with all culture Of land or religion!" _Hoch_! to our refrain Of flourish the trumpets, etc.
Give us "bones of the devil" To exchange in our revel The ingot, the gem, and yellow doubloon; Coronets are but playthings-- We reck not who say things When the Reiters have ridden to death! none too soon!-- To flourish of trumpet and rattle of drum, The Reiters will finish as firm as they come!
H.L.W.
KING CANUTE.
_("Un jour, Kanut mourut.")_
[Bk. X. i.]
King Canute died.[1] Encoffined he was laid. Of Aarhuus came the Bishop prayers to say, And sang a hymn upon his tomb, and held That Canute was a saint--Canute the Great, That from his memory breathed celestial perfume, And that they saw him, they the priests, in glory, Seated at God's right hand, a prophet crowned.