IX.

Now, year by year, the warrior's iron mark Crumbles away from the majestic tree, The indignant life-sap ebbing from the bark Where the grim death-word to Humanity Profaned the Lord of Day.

High o'er the pomp of blooms, as greenly still, Aspires that tree--the Archetype of Fame, The stem rejects all chronicle of ill; The bark shrinks back--the _tree_ survives the same-- The _record_ rots away.

BAVENO, Oct. 8, 1845.

The Parcae.----Leaf the Second.

MAZARIN.

FAREWELL TO THE BEAUTIFUL, WITHOUT.

"I was walking, some days after, in the new apartments of his palace. I recognized the approach of the cardinal (Mazaria) by the sound of his slippered feet, which he dragged one after the other, as a man enfeebled by a mortal malady. I concealed myself behind the tapestry, and I heard him say, 'Il faut quitter tout cela!' ('I must leave all that!') He stopped at every step, for he was very feeble, and casting his eyes on each object that attracted him, he sighed forth, as from the bottom of his heart, 'II faut quitter tout cela! What pains have I taken to acquire these things! Can I abandon them without regret? I shall never see them more where I am about to go!'" &c.--MEMOIRES INEDITS DE LOUIS HENRI, COMTE DE BRIENNE, _Barriere's Edition_, vol. ii. p. 115.

Serene the Marble Images Gleam'd down, in lengthen'd rows; Their life, like the Uranides, A glory and repose.

Glow'd forth the costly canvas spoil From many a gorgeous frame; One race will starve the living toil, The next will gild the name.

That stately silence silvering through, The steadfast tapers shone Upon the Painter's pomp of hue, The Sculptor's solemn stone.

Saved from the deluge-storm of Time, Within that ark, survey Whate'er of elder Art sublime Survives a world's decay!

There creeps a foot, there sighs a breath, Along the quiet floor; An old man leaves his bed of death To count his treasures o'er.

Behold the dying mortal glide Amidst the eternal Art; It were a sight to stir with pride Some pining Painter's heart!

It were a sight that might beguile Sad Genius from the Hour, To see the life of Genius smile Upon the death of Power.

The ghost-like master of that hall Is king-like in the land; And France's proudest heads could fall Beneath that spectre hand.

Veil'd in the Roman purple, preys The canker-worm within; And more than Bourbon's sceptre sways The crook of Mazarin.

Italian, yet more dear to thee Than sceptre, or than crook, The Art in which thine Italy Still charm'd thy glazing look!

So feebly, and with wistful eyes, He crawls along the floor; A dying man, who, ere he dies, Would count his treasures o'er.

And, from the landscape's soft repose, Smiled thy calm soul, Lorraine; And, from the deeps of Raphael, rose Celestial Love again.

In pomp, which his own pomp recalls, The haggard owner sees Thy cloth of gold and banquet halls, Thou stately Veronese!

While, cold as if they scorn'd to hail Creations not their own, The Gods of Greece stand marble-pale Around the Thunderer's throne.

There, Hebe brims the urn of gold; There, Hermes treads the skies; There, ever in the Serpent's fold, Laocoon deathless dies.

There, startled from her mountain rest, Young Dian turns to draw The arrowy death that waits the breast Her slumber fail'd to awe.

There, earth subdued by dauntless deeds, And life's large labours done, Stands, sad as Worth with mortal meeds, Alcmena's mournful son.[B]

They gaze upon the fading form With mute immortal eyes;-- Here, clay that waits the hungry worm; There, children of the skies.

Then slowly as he totter'd by, The old Man, unresign'd, Sigh'd forth: "Alas! and must I die, And leave such life behind?

"The Beautiful, from which I part, Alone defies decay!" Still, while he sigh'd, the eternal Art Smiled down upon the clay.

And as he waved the feeble hand, And crawl'd unto the porch, He saw the Silent Genius stand With the extinguish'd torch!

The world without, for ever yours, Ye stern remorseless Three; What, from that changeful world, secures Calm Immortality?

Nay, soon or late decays, alas! Or canvass, stone, or scroll; From all material forms must pass To forms afresh, the soul.

'Tis but in that _which doth create_, Duration can be sought; A worm can waste the canvass;--Fate Ne'er swept from Time, a Thought.

Lives Phidias in his works alone?-- His Jove returns to air: But wake one godlike shape from stone, And Phidian thought is there!

Blot out the Iliad from the earth, Still Homer's thought would fire Each deed that boasts sublimer worth, And each diviner lyre.

Like light, connecting star to star, Doth Thought transmitted run;-- Rays that to earth the nearest are, Have longest left the sun.

The Parcae.--Leaf the Third.

ANDRE CHENIER.

FAREWELL TO THE BEAUTIFUL, WITHIN.

"Andre Chenier, the original of whatever is truest to nature and genuine passion, in the modern poetry of France, died by the guillotine, July 27, 1794. In ascending the scaffold, he cried, 'To die so young!' 'And there was something here!' he added, striking his forehead, not in the fear of death, but the despair of genius!"--See THIERS, vol. iv. p. 83.

Within the prison's dreary girth, The dismal night, before That morn on which the dungeon Earth Shall wall the soul no more,

There stood serenest images Where doomed Genius lay, The ever young Uranides Around the Child of Clay.

On blacken'd walls and rugged floors Shone cheerful, thro' the night, The stars--like beacons from the shores Of the still Infinite.

From Ida to the Poet's cell The Pain-beguilers stole; Apollo tuned his silver shell And Hebe brimm'd the bowl.

To grace those walls he needed nought That tint or stone bestows; Creation kindled from his thought: He call'd--and gods arose.

The visions Poets only know Upon the captive smiled, As bright within those walls of woe As on the sunlit child;

He saw the nameless, glorious things Which youthful dreamers see, When Fancy first with murmurous wings O'ershadows bards to be;

Those forms to life spiritual given By high creative hymn; From music born--as from their heaven Are born the Seraphim.[C]

Forgetful of the coming day, Upon the dungeon floor He sate to count, poor child of clay, The wealth of genius o'er;

To count the gems, as yet unwrought, But found beneath the soil; The bright discoveries claim'd by thought, As future crowns for toil.

He sees The Work his breath should warm To life, from out the air: The Shape of Love his soul should form, Then leave its birthright there!

He sees the new Immortal rise From her melodious sea; The last descendant of the skies For man to bend the knee--

He sees himself within your shrine O hero gods of Fame! And hears the praise that makes divine The human holy name.

True to the hearts of men shall chime The song their lips repeat; When heroes chant the strain, sublime; When lovers breathe it, sweet.

Lo, from the brief delusion given, He starts, as through the bars Gleams wan the dawn that scares from Heaven And Thought alike--its stars.

Hark to the busy tramp below! The jar of iron doors! The gaoler's heavy footfall slow Along the funeral floors!

The murmur of the crowd that round The human shambles throng; That muffled sullen thunder-sound-- The Death-cart grates along!

"Alas, so soon!--and must I die," He groan'd forth unresign'd; "Flit like a cloud athwart the sky, And leave no wrack behind!

"And yet my Genius speaks to me; The Pythian fires my brain; And tells me what my life should be; A Prophet--and in vain!

"O realm more wide, from clime to clime, Than ever Caesar sway'd; O conquests in that world of time My grand desire survey'd!"--

Blood-red upon his loathing eyes Now glares the gaoler's torch: "Come forth, the day is in the skies, The Death-cart at the porch!"

Pass on!--to thee the Parcae give The fairest lot of all;-- In golden poet-dreams to live, And ere they fade--to fall!

The shrine that longest guards a Name Is oft an early tomb; The Poem most secure of fame Is--some wrong'd poet's doom!

The Parcae.--Leaf the Fourth.

MARY STUART AND HER MOURNER.

"Mary Stuart perished at the age of forty-four years and two months. Her remains were taken from her weeping servants, and a green cloth, torn in haste from an old billiard table, was flung over her once beautiful form. Thus it remained unwatched and unattended, except by a poor little lap-dog, which could not be induced to quit the body of its mistress. This faithful little animal was found dead two days afterwards; and the circumstance made such an impression even on the hard-hearted minister of Elizabeth, that it was mentioned in the official despatches."

MRS. JAMIESON'S _Female Sovereigns--Mary Queen of Scots_.

The axe its bloody work had done; The corpse neglected lay; This peopled world could spare not one To watch beside the clay.

The fairest work from Nature's hand That e'er on mortals shone, A sunbeam stray'd from fairy land To fade upon a throne;--

The Venus of the Tomb[D] whose form Was destiny and death; The Siren's voice that stirr'd a storm In each melodious breath;--

Such _was_, what now by fate is hurl'd To rot, unwept, away. A star has vanish'd from the world; And none to miss the ray!

Stern Knox, that loneliness forlorn A harsher truth might teach To royal pomps, than priestly scorn To royal sins can preach!

No victims now that lip can make! That hand how powerless now! O God! and what a King--but take A bauble from the brow?

The world is full of life and love; The world methinks might spare From millions, one to watch above The dust of monarchs there.

And not one human eye!--yet lo What stirs the funeral pall? What sound--it is not human woe-- Wails moaning through the hall?

Close by the form mankind desert One thing a vigil keeps; More near and near to that still heart It wistful, wondering creeps.

It gazes on those glazed eyes, It hearkens for a breath-- It does not know that kindness dies, And love departs from death.

It fawns as fondly as before Upon that icy hand. And hears from lips, that speak no more, The voice that can command.

To that poor fool, alone on earth, No matter what had been The pomp, the fall, the guilt, the worth, The Dead was still a Queen.

With eyes that horror could not scare, It watch'd the senseless clay:-- Crouch'd on the breast of Death, and there Moan'd its fond life away.

And when the bolts discordant clash'd, And human steps drew nigh, The human pity shrunk abash'd Before that faithful eye;

It seem'd to gaze with such rebuke On those who could forsake; Then turn'd to watch once more the look, And strive the sleep to wake.

They raised the pall--they touch'd the dead, A cry, and _both_ were still'd,-- Alike the soul that Hate had sped, The life that Love had kill'd.

Semiramis of England, hail! Thy crime secures thy sway: But when thine eyes shall scan the tale Those hireling scribes convey;

When thou shalt read, with late remorse, How one poor slave was found Beside thy butcher'd rival's corse, The headless and discrown'd;

Shall not thy soul foretell thine own Unloved, expiring hour, When those who kneel around the throne Shall fly the falling tower;

When thy great heart shall silent break, When thy sad eyes shall strain Through vacant space, one thing to seek One thing that loved--in vain?

Though round thy parting pangs of pride Shall priest and noble crowd; More worth the grief, that mourn'd beside Thy victim's gory shroud!

The Parcae.--Leaf the Fifth.

THE LAST DAYS OF ELIZABETH.

"Her delight is to sit in the dark, and sometimes, with shedding tears, to bewail Essex."--_Contemporaneous Correspondence._

"She refused all consolation; few words she uttered, and they were all expressive of some hidden grief which she cared not to reveal. But sighs and groans were the chief vent which she gave to her despondency, and which, though they discovered her sorrows, were never able to ease or assuage them. Ten days and nights she lay upon the carpet leaning on cushions which her maids brought her," &c.--HUME.