Chapter 1

I.

Oh, "monarchs' arms are wondrous long!"[3] their power is wondrous great, But not to them 'tis given to stem the rushing tide of fate. A king may man a gallant fleet, an island fair may give, But can he blunt the sword's sharp edge, or bid the dead to live?

II.

They leave the strand, that gallant band, their ships are in the bay, It was a glorious sight, I ween, to view that proud array; And there, amid the Persian chiefs, himself he holds the helm, Sits lovely Samos' future lord--he comes to claim his realm!

III.

Moeandrius saw the Persian fleet come sailing proudly down, And his troops he knew were all too few to guard a leaguer'd town; So he laid his crown and sceptre down, his recreant life to save-- Who thus resigns a kingdom fair deserves to be a slave.

IV.

He calls his band--he seeks the strand--they grant him passage free-- "And shall they then," his brother cried, "have a bloodless victory? No--grant me but those spears of thine, and I soon to them shall show, There yet are men in Samos left to face the Persian foe."

V.

The traitor heard his brother's word, and he gave the youth his way; "An empty land, proud Syloson, shall lie beneath thy sway." That youth has arm'd those spearmen stout--three hundred men in all-- And on the Persian chiefs they fell, before the city's wall.

VI.

The Persian lords before the wall were sitting all in state, They deem'd the island was at peace--they reck'd not of their fate; When on them came the fiery youth[4]--with desperate charge he came-- And soon lay weltering in his gore full many a chief of fame.

VII.

The outrage rude Otanes view'd, and fury fired his breast-- And to the winds the chieftain cast his monarch's high behest. He gave the word, that angry lord--"War, war unto the death!" Then many a scimitar flash'd forth impatient from its sheath.

VIII.

Through Samos wide, from side to side, the carnage is begun, And ne'er a mother there is seen, but mourns a slaughter'd son; From side to side, through Samos wide, Otanes hurls his prey, Few, few, are left in that fair isle, their monarch to obey!

IX.

The new-made monarch sits in state in his loved ancestral bow'rs, And he bids his minstrel strike the lyre, and he crowns his head with flow'rs; But still a cloud is on his brow--where is the promised smile? And yet he sits a sceptred king--in his own dear native isle.

X.

Oh! Samos dear, my native land! I tread thy courts again-- But where are they, thy gallant sons? I gaze upon the slain-- "A dreary kingdom mine, I ween," the mournful monarch said, "Where are my subjects good and true? I reign but o'er the dead!

XI.

"Ah! woe is me--I would that I had ne'er to Susa gone, To ask that fatal boon of thee, Hystaspes' generous son. Oh, deadly fight! oh, woeful sight! to greet a monarch's eyes! All desolate--my native land, reft of her children, lies!"

XII.

Thus mourn'd the chief--and no relief his regal state could bring. O'er such a drear unpeopled waste, oh! who would be a king? And still, when desolate a land, and her sons all swept away, "The waste domain of Syloson," 'tis call'd unto this day!

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Greek proverb.

[4] "The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made for a space an opening large."--MARMION.

LOVE AND DEATH.

O strong as the Eagle, O mild as the Dove! How like, and how unlike, O Death and O Love!

Knitting Earth to the Heaven, The Near to the Far-- With the step on the dust, And the eyes on the star!

Interweaving, commingling, _Both_ rays from God's light! Now in sun, now in shadow, Ye shift to the sight!

Ever changing the sceptres Ye bear--as in play; Now Love as Death rules us, Now Death has Love's sway!

Why wails so the New-born? Love gave it the breath. The soul sees Love's brother-- Life enters on Death!

Why that smile the wan lips Of the dead man above? The soul sees Death changing Its shape into Love.

So confused and so blending Each twin with its brother, The frown of one melts In the smile of the other.

Love warms where Death withers, Death blights where Love blooms; Death sits by our cradles, Love stands by our tombs!

Edward Lytton Bulwer.

Nov. 9, 1843.

THE BRIDGE OVER THE THUR.

FROM THE GERMAN.--GUSTAV SCHWAB.

Spurning the loud THUR'S headlong march, Who hath stretcht the stony arch? That the wayfarer blesses his path! That the storming river wastes his wrath!

Was it a puissant prince, in quelling This watery vassal, oft rebelling?-- Or earthly Mars, the bar o'erleaping, That wrong'd his war of its onward sweeping?

Did yon high-nesting Castellan Lead the brave Street, for horse and man? And, the whiles his House creeps under the grass, The Road, that he built, lies fair to pass?

Nay! not for the Bridge, which ye look upon, Manly hest knit stone with stone. The loved word of a woman's mouth Bound the thundering chasm with a rocky growth.

She, in turret, who sitteth lone, Listing the broad stream's heavier groan, Kenning the flow, from his loosen'd fountains, From the clouds, that have wash'd a score of mountains.

A skiff she notes, by the shelvy marge, Wont deftly across to speed its charge; Now jumping and twisting, like leaf on a lynn, Wo! if a foot list cradle therein!

Sooner, than hath she THOUGHT her FEELING, With travellers twain is the light plank reeling. Who are they?... Marble watcher! Who? Thy beautiful, youthful, only two!

Coming, glad, from the greenwood slaughter, They reach the suddenly-swollen water; But the nimble, strong, and young, Boldly into the bark have sprung.

The game in the forest fall, stricken and bleeding; Those river-waves are of other breeding! And the shriek of the mother helpeth not, At seeing turn upwards the keel of the boat.

Whilst her living pulses languish, As she taketh in her anguish, By the roar, her soul which stuns, On the corses of her sons.

Needs must she upon the mothers think, Who yet may stand beholding sink, Under the hastily-roused billow, Sons, upthriven to be their pillow.

Till, in her deeply-emptied bosom, There buds a melancholy blossom, Tear-nourisht:--the will the wo to spare To others, which hath left her bare.

Ere doth her sorrow a throe abate, Is chiseling and quarrying, early, late. The hoarse flood chafes, with straiten'd tides: Aloft, the proud Arch climbs and strides.

How her eyes, she fastens on frolicsome boys, O'er the stone way racing, with careless noise. Hark!--hark!--the wild Thur, how he batters his rocks! But YE gaze, laugh, and greet the gruff chider, with mocks.

Or, she vieweth with soft footfall, Mothers, following their children all. A gleam of pleasure, a spring of yearning, Sweetens her tears, dawns into her mourning.

And her pious work endureth! And her pain a slumber cureth! Heareth not yonder torrent's jars! Hath her young sons above the stars!

Fontainbleau, 1843.

THE BANKING-HOUSE.

A HISTORY IN THREE PARTS. PART II.