CANTO II.

I.

‘Another hour is fled;--a few, few more, ‘And life, and all its sweets, are ever o’er; “’Tis hard in youth’s fair blossom to decay, ‘And, like the dreams of midnight, pass away: ‘To go--we scarce know where,--and, as the wind, ‘To leave, alas! no ling’ring trace behind!

‘This present sun upon my glory glow’d!-- ‘The next shall light me to my last abode! ‘Farewell, ye scenes of youth, whose brightning hue ‘Gave hopes and joys, so empty to my view! 10 ‘Farewell, those hopes and joys!--thou bubble, Fame, ‘Farewell! what art thou?--nothing but a name. ‘Yet none, O none of these, once tinted high ‘From this cold breast, can wring a single sigh, ‘And never soul, save _one_, this heart of care ‘Would loath for ever from its bonds to tear; ‘But ah! that _one_, when thoughts of her arise, ‘They pour my melting spirit from mine eyes. ‘But this unmans me!--cease, thou ruthless thought, ‘With woman’s softness, woman’s feeling fraught!’ 20

Thus Ismael sigh’d, as, on his stony bed, In dungeon mirk, he lean’d his aching head, And mem’ry pond’ring o’er the former day, Recall’d dear cherished scenes, far, far away!

II.

Hark, on the ear the roughly-sullen jar Creaks harshly hoarse, of op’ning bolt and bar; And Ismael started up, and turn’d his eye To gaze on black expanse of vacancy; And thought,--“’Tis morn, the tyrant’s abject train ‘Are come to drag me to a death of pain. 30 ’Tis well!--I am prepar’d--the fiend shall find ‘That Ismael’s bosom holds no vulgar mind.’ Back on its pond’rous hinge the huge door flew, And the grim gaoler met the pris’ner’s view.

High Ismael gaz’d in sullen, scornful mood, On him (so whisper’d thought) the man of blood? But when he saw the gaoler soft replace The dungeon door, and then with noiseless pace Steal where he lay; and, by the lamp he brought, A glimm’ring glance of steely dagger caught; 40 And mark’d him draw his cloke around, and creep Like some assassin murd’ring infant sleep, A pang of bootless rage, of shiv’ring chill, Cross’d his proud soul with agonising thrill:-- ‘What, here shall Ismael yield a life so brave, ‘To death so craven, by so base a slave; ‘And not a limb to move?’ The bursting fire Glar’d in his starting eye; in frantic ire, With madd’ning rage, he shook, he gnaw’d the chain, Dash’d, roll’d his form!--but each attempt was vain! The last soul-piercing pang of rending life, 51 Could never match that moment’s harrowing strife!

With finger rais’d to lip, with voice so drown’d, That list’ning ear could scarcely catch the sound, “Hush, hush,” the gaoler cried; “be still, and see, Thy servant comes to set his Sultan free.” Scarce had he said, when Ismael’s wond’ring eye Saw at his feet the prostrate gaoler lie. And heard, with wilder’d joy, the grateful sound Of clinking fetters clashing on the ground; 60 And raptur’d felt each limb of might again, Free as the air that wantons o’er the main: ‘O say what means all this’--“Hush, hush, my lord, “The life of both hangs on a single word. “This is no time for talk!--these garments take, “Wrap them around you close!--the salem make “If aught accost you; but, mind, no reply, “Your part a mute, be silent, or you die! “But, more for safety, take this sword; ’twill be “Of use in peril--now then, follow me.” 70 All this strange scene had pass’d so swift, to seem To Ismael like th’ adventures of a dream; But, when his hand the pond’rous sabre prest, He felt his soul high heaving in his breast; And courage whisper’d, ‘If I fall, my fate Shall, like my life, be gloriously great.’

Meanwhile the gaoler, cautious as before, Roll’d on its massy hinge, and barr’d the dungeon door; Then down a mirky passage pacing slow, They left that scene of horror and of wo. 80

III.

The hotly-beaming orb of noon-day’s sky, Illum’d green Caymyr with his golden eye, And cast a mellowing splendour, warm and bright, O’er many a scene of beauty and delight. Here the soft waters gliding, like the hours, Through balmy banks of variegated flow’rs; And here the camp, and here the martial train, That, like himself, cast lustre on the plain: And there, o’er yon wide hill, that grove of trees, That fling their fragrance t’ th’ enamour’d breeze; 90 While where they leave an op’ning, give to view Some tow’r, or temple, proudly frowning through:-- All seem’d as if in Union’s silken bands, Young Love, and glorious War, had met to join their hands.

But through that num’rous army, rude commotion Was like the storm that ruffles o’er the ocean; Though louder, wilder was the mingled sound Of thousand tongues that echoed o’er the ground; The whisper’d murder, or the bolder cry Of stern upbraiding, or of mutiny. 100

And whence is this?--Their youthful chief alone Is gone! but when--or where--to all unknown. His tent is search’d, that night was pass’d not there, His couch untouch’d, his absent steed, declare: Throughout the camp, throughout the martial train, They seek high Ismael,--but they seek in vain.

In anger stern, the chiefs together came, Suspicion black’ning o’er their leader’s name. In speaking silence, each glanc’d round on each, All loath alike to be the first in speech 110 To vent his wrath.--At length, each rolling eye Is turn’d on one, who stands indignant by: Bold was that chief, through all that conq’ring band Not one surpassed the prowess of his hand. But fierce in temper, “turbulent in tongue,” He lov’d to lead the factions of the throng: Abbas, his name. Rage sparkling in his eyes, He mark’d the chiefs, and thus the warrior cries;-- “Say, is it meet, that here, while squadrons stand “To fight and conquer at a boy’s command; 120 “He, he the cause, the leader of the fray, “Is gone in secret, fled, perchance, away? “Say, is it meet, that we, whose rank and fame, “Would some respect from mightier chieftains claim; “Should thus be treated with contemptuous scorn; “By Mahomet, ’tis no longer to be borne! “Nor shall ye bear it! rouse, and let us own “This wretch unworthy of so great a throne.” Thus far he said, when to the listening heav’n A long, loud shout of “Ismael! Ismael” ’s given. 130 All that wide camp re-echoed with the name, So high in glory, and so dear to fame. And now towards the chieftain’s ample tent, The clanging sounds of scouring steed are bent. And each on each the assembled leaders gaze, Fix’d to their stations in profound amaze.

IV.

And Ismael enter’d on that busy scene, With bearing princely, and with brow serene; Saluting all around with regal grace, He took his station in the vacant place. 140 Straight to the earth, was bent each look of shame; Straight o’er each cheek, the tingling colour came; So motionless was ev’ry chieftain there, That scarce a breathing died upon the car.

High Ismael rose!--in language short and cold, Began th’ adventures of the night t’ unfold. _The cause of all_, alone forbears to tell, _His seeking her_ his bosom lov’d so well.

Nor had he finished his narration brief, Ere the fierce rage of Abbas, haughty chief! 150 That rage, which scarce had been restrain’d till now, Burst like the flamings of red Ætna’s brow:-- “Go hence, thou liar! hence, thou smooth-tongued youth! “To other ears go take thy tale of truth, “For here ’tis not believ’d! Yet grant it true, “What mighty aim could Ismael have in view, “To leave his army on the very night “Before he meant to lead it to the fight? “Why should that gaoler too, in spite of danger “Of his own life, free thee, to him a stranger? 160 “And though I grant thy courser’s speed from here, “In a few hours to Tauris’ walls, might bear, “Yet, as that steed was captur’d, or was slain “In combat with Alvante’s troops, again, “How in so short a time did’st thou return, “For when thou quitted thence, ’twas near the morn?

“Think’st thou, that Persia’s mightier sons will be “The dupes of falsehood, and the slaves of thee? “Perish the thought; this arm shall ne’er permit “So base a wretch on Iran’s throne to sit. 170 “’Tis my resolve!”--“And mine! and mine!” was sent From ev’ry quarter of the crowded tent: As up the chieftains rose, the sudden glare Of hundred sabres glimmer’d in the air. ‘And, traitor, this is mine,’ high Ismael cries, Death on his brow, and fury in his eyes; As flash’d his weapon forth, and through the head Of Abbas, down e’en to the mouth it sped. He fell:--o’er Ismael’s eye th’ expression came Of pitying softness, conq’ring wrathful flame: 180 He dropt the blade,--he sigh’d,--for he could glow In soft compassion o’er a fallen foe.

He turn’d away--his eye-ball’s fire renew’d, As red it roll’d where, half-repentant, stood The low’ring chiefs amaz’d--the same wild band, As when they first uprose, in look and stand. The garb flung back, the haughty lips apart, The voice just issuing from the swelling heart, The foot advanc’d in menace, and the sword High rear’d, to wreak the fury of its lord. 190 They seem’d so still, and yet that still spoke more Than thousand voices mix’d in loud uproar.

V.

And Ismael cast on all his dark’ning eye, That beam’d with stern and conscious dignity, And thus he said,--‘It boots not Ismael, here ‘In length of words his slighted fame to clear. ‘But if, to prove mine honour, you are bent, ‘My brave deliverer waits without the tent; ‘Examine him or not, as suits you best, ‘For truth, like gold, is purer from the test. 200 ‘To use this traitor’s words, who, on the floor ‘Sends out his treason on his ebbing gore, ‘“Why should that gaoler too, in spite of danger ‘“To his own life, free me, to him a stranger?” “’Tis easy answer’d:--In the hostile strife, ‘Some months ago, this arm had sav’d his life, ‘Albeit a valiant foe, and set him free, ‘Once more to taste the sweets of liberty: ‘Since then Alvante rais’d him to the pow’r, ‘Chief gaoler to the royal dungeon tow’r: 210 ‘He knew me, and on Gratitude’s fair shrine ‘Repaid the life I gave--by saving mine.

‘Rude Abbas ask’d again, how, with such speed ‘I here return’d, unaided by my steed. ‘I had began t’ explain it--when the force ‘Of his rash fury broke on my discourse. ‘We had not long left Tauris, when the birth ‘Of yonder sun began to wake the earth, ‘And nature open’d all her stores of bliss, ‘On hill and vale, to meet his golden kiss. 220 ‘When, as we swift strode on, we turn’d our eye ‘On two young horsemen slowly riding by; ‘What should be done?--we wanted steeds--and now ‘Fate in our way these travellers seem’d to throw: ‘We hasten’d to them--mildly proffer’d gold ‘To yield their steeds--they were not to be sold: ‘We seiz’d the reins--we bar’d our blades--and swore ‘That we would buy them with their master’s gore: ‘They heard our threaft’nings, and they mark’d our pow’rs, ‘The caitiffs trembled--and the steeds were ours. 230 ‘Scarce had we mounted, ere the distant sound ‘Of clanking horse-treads rush’d along the ground. ‘Away we speed--a neighbouring hill we gain-- ‘We look behind--we view Alvante’s train ‘In hot pursuance:--like the winged wind, ‘Off, off we scour, and leave them far behind, ‘And noon has view’d us here arrive, t’ assuage ‘The clam’rous treason of suspicious rage.

‘But now, away; ere evening’s shadows fall, ‘Our bands shall revel in Alvante’s hall. 240 ‘This is the moment of propitious fate; ‘Alvante’s name is held in general hate: ‘At our approach the gates shall open fly, ‘And thou art all our own, O Victory!’ He ceas’d: on every chieftain’s war-worn face, Of former fury vanish’d every trace; On each stern brow, swart cheek, and lofty mien, Nought but the hope of coming fame is seen. As their dark eyes, with admiration warm, Glanc’d on their leader’s soul-inspiring form, 250 As high it tower’d, a something like divine, A heav’n-born ray around it seem’d to shine; His kindling soul flash’d glory from his eyes, And to his voice, that gleam of enterprise Had giv’n a tone prophetic; as it roll’d, He seem’d a being of immortal mould. And loud they cry, as high is rear’d each sword, “Long live great Ismael, Persia’s mighty lord.” Forth from the tent then rush’d the warrior-train, And here, and there, disperse along the plain; 260 Swift sink the tents, the bands in many a throng, Arm,--form their deep’ning squares,--and sweep along.

VI.

Commotion hovers with her dark wide wings, O’er Persia’s stately city; there she brings Her sister, wild Amaze; each dweller’s soul There, owns those kindred demons’ joint control. On every form, on every busy mien, Nought but one mixt expression there was seen; But that expression told of all the train Of throbbing passions that usurp the brain. 270 There, you might trace young joy, but also there Spoke something like the reign of fear, of care, Of wonder, of confusion: sight and speech, Like freezing streams, seem’d half bound up in each.

As they pour’d from their houses, like the bees That leave their hives, and throng the fragrant trees, The only sound that fell upon the ear, Was (faintly mutter’d) “Ismael is near!” ’Till, as the news gain’d ground, the clamours rise, And “Ismael! Ismael!” rend the list’ning skies. 280 Some fling the high gates open--some loud cry, “Perish the proud Alvante;” while they fly To seek the palace, and the court to force, And send th’ usurper on his long, last course.

The gen’ral shouts, the long and deaf’ning din, Alvante heard, his stately halls within: He started up in wonder and alarm; The flashing sabre found his giant arm. “Hark! hark! methought I heard that hated name, “What, is it Ismael?--hark! again--the same.” 290 Then his friend Muly rush’d within that room, Trembling his form, and pale as cygnet’s plume His vet’ran cheek:--‘Fly, fly, ere yet too late, ‘The clam’rous throng are at the palace gate; ‘Thine head they swear’--(hark, hark, again that roar!)-- ‘Shall pay for all the streams of kindred gore ‘Thou’st caus’d to flow; in vain we’ve tried t’assuag ‘Their treasonous tumults, and their guilty rage. ‘They cry that Ismael’s bands are sweeping now, ‘In swift procession, o’er yon mountain’s brow. 300 ‘O fly, O fly to shield thy regal form, ’Till lull’d the beating dangers of the storm,-- ‘Haste to Armenia, that e’er loyal land ‘Will yield my sultan many a mighty band; ‘Haste, haste, O haste!’--“And whither should I fly? “Here in his courts must king Alvante die; “King am I now, and Death will lose his sting, “E’en ’mid his grasp, to think I die a king.” ‘And think’st thou, if thou tarriest here, thy fate ‘Will be in all the royalty of state? 310 ‘That thou’lt fall nobly? No, a slave thou’lt die, ‘Brought out to grace thy victor’s victory; ‘To feast his minions with thy dying wo; ‘(Hark, hark, the rebels burst the gates below!) ‘This door will lead us hence,--away, away, ‘Lost is your life, your kingdom, if you stay! ‘But hold!--I have it!--cast these garments on, ‘Muffle your face, and mingle with the throng; ‘Then unperceiv’d escape, and haste to gain ‘The troops of conquest in Armenia’s plain; 320 ‘But now away.’ Though more than mortal brave, A natural wish his life, his realms to save, Alvante felt. If tarrying here, he knew That he must die, and die ignobly too. If for awhile he went, Armenia might, By fortune aided, place him in his right.

He instinctively clasp’d the muffling vest In many a fold around his face and breast, And both are now disguis’d! one moment more, And they have past yon gold-enamell’d door, 330 And mingled with the throng--and to the sky, Now, they have join’d the gen’ral clam’rous cry. A leader mark’d their garb--their mien--their tone-- Again he turn’d to view them--they are gone.

VII.

By Tauris’ walls, along the delving plain, Swift drive young Ismael’s far-extending train; On yonder hill, has paus’d the setting sun, To mark their glories ere his race be run, And loves his splendour o’er their arms to cast, Type of their fame, ere yet that splendour’s past; 340 Forth from the walls, like billows on the deep, In one vast mass the joyous numbers sweep.

“Welcome, great Chief! welcome, the golden hour, “That frees us from the tyger-tyrant’s pow’r; “Welcome, O welcome; see our gates are riv’n, “T’ admit, to welcome thee, O son of heav’n. “O let us shout, O let us gladly sing, “Long life to Ismael, glory to our King!”

Upon a milk-white steed, high Ismael rode, That pranc’d exulting in his mighty load; 350 And that great warrior, cast in Beauty’s mould, Blaz’d like a god-head in his arms of gold. From hill, from vale, around, and from afar, Roll’d the loud music of tremendous war; The awful gong, the trumpet’s brazen tone, And the rough thunder of the tymbalon, The rude, yet rousing clashings of the zel, The hollow blast of Süankos’ shell. While, like some meteor rising here and there, The wide, bright banners wanton’d in the air. 360 Thus, while their welcome path, on every side, All Tauris hails, full royally they ride; And, ’mid the clamours of th’ admiring crowd, That hail th’ auspicious march; yon palace proud (With not a drop of blood upon his sword,) Receives another, and a mightier lord.

VIII.

Mark’st thou yon banners waving in the gale? Mark’st thou yon troops, that over hill and vale Their martial numbers pour; and, spreading far, Now thirst impatient for the coming war? 370 And mark’st thou, fiercely, there, against them bent, Yon wide, and long, and glorious armament? And mark’st thou too that chief, whose brows appear Like sable clouds, that in night’s dark’ning sphere Hang o’er two blazing stars; whose awful form, Is as some tow’r amid the whelming storm; Whose all-defying mien, whose stern, wild air, Luxuriant Fancy might perhaps compare To angel Eblis, when rebellious driv’n, Destruction breathing, from the courts of heav’n? 380 Who is that warrior?--who!--and can that mien Be e’er forgotten, when once known, once seen? It is Alvante!--Bulwark of the fight, Whose sword is vengeance, and whose arm is might. Who’d safe arrived, with his faithful friend, His care-beguiler, to Armenia’s land; And with Moratcham, whom he had subdued, His rebel brother, he his league renew’d. ’Twere strange to mark their meeting, how they came, Souls fierce as sparkles in the rising flame. 390 How loth to speak the first: each eye-ball’s swell Beam’d on the earth, where scarce it e’er had fell Before; how sullen, like a wayward child, They sooth’d, they soften’d, and they reconcil’d. But well I ween, that spirits proud and strong Like theirs, can never intermingle long. And even now they half-reluctant go, Hand link’d in hand, against a mutual foe, To wage a mutual war.--They part awhile, Moratcham hast’ning to Assyria’s soil, 400 Fresh troops to raise; while to Armenia’s skies, In warlike pride, Alvante’s banners rise, And numbers daily to those banners came, Or led by plunder, or arous’d by fame.

Meantime young Ismael hears the dread alarms, Of his great enemy’s increasing arms. Again his standard on the breezes burst; Again his bands, in ancient victories nurst, He wakes; and, as the Simoom’s fiery breath, That wafts the kiss of pestilential death; 410 Fate-bearing Ismael, glorying in his might, Destruction’s sabre bar’d, and rush to meet the fight.

From wide Assyria, young Moratcham led A martial squadron to his brother’s aid; But Ismael, with his courage, mingling still The sage’s prudence and the leader’s skill, Prevents their joining; and now hastes to dare Th’ enraged Alvante to the scenes of war: And that bold chief determines, with this band, Cull’d from the bravest of Armenia’s land, 420 Upon the fight to set his fortunes all, A king to conquer, or a king to fall.

But lo, the thick’ning masses move, and slow Advance in order, ’gainst th’ advancing foe. And hark, that crash!--The mingling hosts engage, Blood streams, and armour clangs, and all is war and rage; Man combats man, on hero hero dies, Glares sword on sword, and ring the battle cries. High in the air the hov’ring vultures soar, And scream impatient for their feast of gore. 430 On the shock’d earth the slaughter’d numbers roll, And glory burns in every warrior’s soul; The battle-fields, like cauldrons, fiercely boil, And Azrail claps his iron wings and claims the soil. Tremendous is that scene of carnage fell, No mortal tongue its horrors e’er can tell!

As, when on some thick forest’s lofty head, From high, some fierce autumnal blast is sped, Drives through the leafy throng its rabid way, And shakes their thousand branches with dismay; 440 The leaves, the boughs, the trees themselves around Are swept away, and scatter’d on the ground: So stern Alvante, with resistless might, Cleaves his red pathway through the groves of fight. War-loving Azrail, Death’s tremendous lord, Frowns on his crest, and hovers on his sword. Bath’d in red streams of hostile gore, where’er Tow’rs his proud form, confusion wild is there.

His bands scarce think him mortal, and, inspir’d By his example, think that God has fir’d 450 Their swelling breasts; and, like the billowy deep, Fierce (led by him) against the foe they sweep. They thin the hostile ranks, who, in dismay, In more than fear, half-routed, yield them way. Then, in that moment, when Alvante’s eye Saw the bright beams of coming victory; When, in idea, his hand has grasp’d again With raptur’d joy, the throne of Iran: then, Then, in that moment of eventful strife, Worth a whole age of common, passive life; 460 Before Alvante’s way, at headlong speed, A youthful chief has spurr’d his snowy steed. Each combatant has rous’d him from the fight, Awhile to gaze on that high form of might. But Iran’s genius, as aloft she flew, Hung back, and trembled at the dangerous view: For, in that god-like youth, she marks too well Her last, lone hope, her favour’d Ismael. ‘Come on,’ he cries, ‘proud tyrant; come, and know ‘That thou wilt combat with no vulgar foe; 470 ‘Use thy whole art and strength; for I am he, ‘Worthy alone, to fight--to conquer thee. ‘I come arm’d in my bleeding country’s might! “’Tis Ismael, chief, who wooes thee to the fight!’ Alvante answered not, but in the flame That flash’d his brow, and glar’d his eye-balls, came A dreadful something, eager to destroy, An horrid energy, a demon joy. So high he rear’d his blade, it seem’d that fate Upon one blow from that dread arm would wait. 480 But Ismael’s courser, practis’d in the war, Swerv’d, and the sabre cut the yielding air. Not so did Ismael’s blade, though broke its force, Through the steel corselet it has ta’en its course, And gash’d full sore:--and now the strokes so fast From either arm, to either form are past, That scarce the eye-ball’s searching glance can know, Where giv’n, where parried, or receiv’d the blow; Save by the sparks that from their armour flash’d, Save by the gore, that from the corselets gash’d, 490 Pour’d in long streams; the drops upon the plain Fell from their brows, like pattering of rain: And every stroke was aim’d full strong and true, For each great chieftain ’mid the combat knew, That all the war was on a single hand, That Iran’s empire hung upon his brand.

A foe so dread, Alvante never yet In conflict’s thickest walks of heroes met; And ne’er had Ismael, mid th’ embattled throng, Known eye so keen, and arm so swift and strong. 500 Each stroke, that like the flash of lightning past, Seem’d fiercer, heavier, mightier than the last; Till Ismael felt his youthful arm at length, Weaken its blows, and slacken in its strength; While stern Alvante, like some massy tow’r, Still seem’d to combat with the prime of pow’r: But Ismael hop’d one blow, that should contain All his remaining strength, should smite him on the plain.

He nerv’d his arm, he rear’d it high in air, Then downwards drove the pondrous scymitar; 510 Alvante’s sword receiv’d that dreadful stroke,-- And Ismael’s treach’rous blade snapp’d short, and broke.

Over Alvante’s face appear’d to play A wild ecstatic joy, a dreadful ray; And o’er his eye’s dark field of fierceness flew A something, O! too horrible to view! “Now, now thine hour is come,” he inly said, And high in air, he rear’d his shining blade.

Then Persia’s Genius, as she soar’d on high, Trembled with fear, at Ismael’s death so nigh. 520 Among the darts, that cleave the airy tides, She singles one, and to Alvante guides: Then in that moment, through his bending head, When thund’ring down his massy blade, it sped. Th’ exulting speech has fainted from his tongue, From his numb’d hand down dropt the sword and rung Useless on earth; the swarthy colour flies, The field recedes upon his glazing eyes, And Azrail’s cold tremendous shades around him rise. He fell! still Ismael held his stifled breath, 530 Still waiting for the dire approach of death; And, though he saw him fall, yet still he deem’d ’Twas not reality, but that he dream’d. At length he thought the coming stroke of fate, From fierce Alvante, linger’d long and late: He lifts his eyes--he sees him not--again, Surpris’d, he drops them on the purple plain, And there he views him!--Oh! how chang’d his state! That arm, so dread--how cold, inanimate! Then, then he felt it all! then, then it came 540 Swiftly upon him, like the glance of flame: He bent his body o’er his steed, his hand Seiz’d from the earth, his enemy’s red brand; Then lifts his voice, and dashes mid the crowd, ‘Alla! il Alla!’ shouting, long and loud. New strength has nerv’d his weaken’d arm; where’er It rises, death and destiny are there. His troops have caught his fire, and to the heav’n, ‘Alla! il Alla! and his Ismael!’ ‘s given. On, on they drive:--in thunder-struck dismay, 550 On every side Alvante’s troops give way; They fly tumultuous, or, around the plain, By pow’rs resistless, fall in heaps of slain.

X.

The setting sun his parting beams has shed On many a pile of dying, and of dead; Emblem of life! like his last dying ray, Thousands have seen the closing of their day; Have, when he sunk beneath yon hill, and fir’d The plains beneath, with mellowing blaze--expired. There, by yon palm, that waves its arms on high, 560 A youthful chief has laid him down to die; His mother’s last, lone hope, her joy, her pride: Three other sons, by war’s o’erwhelming tide, Had long been swept away: and he, now gasping here, Was left alone, her aged breast to cheer. And must he also die? in life’s gay morn, And leave her wretched (like a wreck forlorn): And she now sits at home; and thinks the while, That fate, propitious, on his arms will smile; That glory’s hand will gild his youthful name, 570 With laurels gather’d in the field of fame. How fruitless all her cares--her hopes how vain-- He ne’er will bless her widow’d sight again! From his cold heart fast ebb the torrents red, Down sinks his arm, he’s dying!--ah! he’s dead!

And there, by yonder shelt’ring hill, is laid Expiring Seyd, the once-fam’d Renegade. From his own country banished; all he lov’d Were left behind, and hither he had rov’d. Then he was young, and fate might have in store, 580 To cheer the future, many a blessing more: But, in one fatal hour, of sense bereft, All, all was withered--for his God he left! Black were his ringlets then, they now are grey; Yet ne’er could mem’ry quit that dreadful day; He rush’d to battle, glory met him there, For in Seyd’s bosom, courage was despair. Years roll’d away, and found him still the same, Deep sunk in guilt, yet conscious of his shame; And now, alas! that guilt has brought him here, 590 Without a friend his dying hour to cheer; Upon the past he turns his desperate eye, A long, long scene of guilt and infamy; Upon the future,--no!--he does not dare To cast a look on what awaits him there; And fain he’d lift his thoughts to heav’n, and fain Would pray once more; to him th’ attempt is vain: He rears him up, towards his native shore He rolls his eye;--peace,--he can gaze no more.

XI.

And Ismael dropp’d the blade, and wav’d his hand, 600 From the pursuit to stay his conq’ring band. ‘Hold, hold, my friends; no longer drive the blow ‘Against a vanquish’d, and unworthy foe: ‘Hold, and remember mercy’s soft control ‘Should e’er be dearest to a hero’s soul. ‘Cease the pursuit: and haste to search the field, ‘Haste to the wounded, every help to yield; ‘Nor to _our_ bands _alone_, but also those ‘Whom fate or chance have number’d with our foes: ‘And then, to mighty Alla let us give 610 ‘The debt of gratitude, that still we live-- ‘That conquest’s ours: while coming night shall steep ‘The toils of slaughter in the sweets of sleep. ‘Although to-morrow’s dawning sun must see ‘Us march again to war and victory; ‘Must mark us go to wield the conq’ring brand ‘Against Moratcham’s far-inferior band, ‘To place me on my glorious grandsire’s throne, ‘And then--O Selyma, I’m all thine own!’

NOTES

ON CANTO I.

Stanza I.

“_Spread Ismael’s banners to the wanton breeze._”

For the better understanding of several passages in this Poem, I will here subjoin a short account of the claims of my hero, Ismael, to the throne of Persia, and a brief history of his life.

Usum Cassan, king of Persia, gave his daughter, Martha, in marriage to Shich-Eidar, a certain sage, famous for a new sect of religion, and for extraordinary piety and virtue.

At Usum Cassan’s death, he was succeeded by his son Jacup, but he being murdered by his wife, Julaver, a man of high rank, and a distant relation to him, seized the throne, and dying, after three years, was succeeded by Baysinger, and at his death, the crown came to a young nobleman named Rustam.

Though no one had a better (nor indeed so good a) right to the kingdom of Persia as Shich-Eidar, on account of his marriage with Usum Cassan’s daughter, yet his birth being inferior to those who had hitherto reigned, and being so entirely absorbed in the care of religion, and the sweets of retirement; during the sway of the three preceding kings, there was not even any mention of him, or his pretensions. But Rustam was alarmed at the numbers who daily flocked to Shich-Eidar, to embrace his religious principles, and he was afraid of the reverence which the Persians paid to his high virtues and brilliant talents, and of their secret attachment to the race of Usum Cassan; he therefore resolved to rid himself of so formidable an object for his fears, and employed assassins, who murdered the unfortunate sage at his residence in Ardevil. But Rustam was afterwards slain in his turn by Achmet, who is said _to have been favoured by the king’s own mother, and aided by her in the death of her son_.

The murderer seized the crown, but enjoyed it only six months, when Carabes, one of Rustam’s ancient officers, collecting a considerable body of soldiers, marched straight to Tauris, then the capital of Persia, and surprising Achmet, who was in no condition to resist, put him to death, by the most dreadful (though almost merited) tortures.

The throne being thus vacant, Alvante, a nobleman of high rank, was chosen to fill it.

Shich-Eidar left three sons, who would have shared the same fate as their father, had they fallen into Rustam’s hands. The two eldest fled, one to Asia Minor, the other to Aleppo, and the third, Ismael, then only a child, was secretly conveyed, by his father’s friends, to Hyrcania or Ghilan; where he was protected by Pyrchalim, a nobleman then in possession of several places on the Caspian Sea. Pyrchalim caused him to be reared in the religious tenets of Shich-Eidar, and the youth perceiving that was the best way to acquire popular favour, of which he had great need to support the just pretensions he had to the throne, shewed a great zeal to observe, and to propagate, his paternal sect. As he was possessed of great personal beauty, and inherited all the splendid abilities of his father, combined with great courage and eloquence, he was soon joined, not only by the common people, but also by many of high rank.

His first success in arms, was the regaining certain lands in Armenia, which had been given his mother as her dowry, and afterwards being reinforced by many of Shich-Eidar’s old disciples, he attacked the castle of Mamurlac, and after having taken and plundered it, he led his victorious army to Sumach, the capital of Mesopotamia, which he also took, and gave the spoils to his soldiers. At the noise of these first exploits, and at the immense booty acquired by those who followed his standard, numbers daily flocked to him from all parts, and he soon found himself at the head of a considerable army, with which he resolved to march immediately to Tauris, where Alvante, lately placed upon the throne, held his court. That monarch had but just recovered from the fatigues and confusion of a civil war with Moratcham, his brother (or, as some assert, his son), who disputed the crown with him, and having lost an important battle, had fled from the Persian territories.

The severe persecutions which Alvante had exercised, after his victory, upon several of the chiefs of Tauris, who had taken part with his opponent, rendered his name odious, and presented Ismael with a very fair opportunity, who no sooner came before the city, than the gates were thrown open. Alvante, who suspected nothing of this irruption into his capital, without troops, and aware of the hatred entertained against him by the whole city, was obliged to fly (and as one author relates) in disguise: and Ismael entered triumphantly into Tauris, without shedding the least blood, except of a few of Alvante’s guards.

In the mean time Moratcham had reconciled himself to his brother Alvante, for the purpose of repelling their common enemy, the former hastened to Assyria to raise forces, and the latter was already at the head of a large army in Armenia: there Ismael followed him, and (preventing Moratcham’s joining his brother, which was their intention,) defeated him in a battle, in which Alvante fell, bravely fighting at the head of his troops. Moratcham, hearing of his brother’s fate, carried his army towards Tauris, but Ismael intercepting him, totally routed and put him to flight.

After this, Ismael reigned gloriously for twenty-five years, and died in peaceable possession of one of the most powerful monarchies in the world, having verified the predictions of Shich-Eidar, who was a very skilful astrologer, and who had foretold,--“That this “son of his should one day by his zeal and conquests “almost equal the glory of Mahomet himself.”

Stanza III.--Line 119.

“_And she for safety from the civil war._”

It must be remembered that Ismael first attacked Armenia, &c. before his successes made him so bold as to strike so adventurous a blow as attacking Alvante in his own capital. It was the custom of those who inhabited the provinces, and who were too peaceably inclined to mix in the intestine commotions that so often occur in the East, to remove their families and effects as near the capital as possible, though this scheme must appear very injudicious to one who reflects that the chief city is generally the most harrassed, ultimately.

NOTE

ON CANTO II.

Stanza VII.--Line 358.

“_The hollow blast of Süankos’ shell._”

The Süankos cannot properly be called a war instrument, although in the earlier ages of Persia, and even perhaps in Ismael’s time, it was made use of for that purpose. It is at present often used as a trumpet, for sounding an alarm, or a signal. Its tones are deep and hollow.

TO

LADY C---- L----,

Who, at the Private Races given by Lord D----, set a noble example of humanity and feeling; when a poor man being much hurt, she had him conveyed to her carriage, and interested herself most anxiously in his recovery.

_Written at Fifteen._

Daughter of Feeling, Queen of Love, ’Tis to thee these lines are due, With all the beauty of the dove, Hast thou then her nature too!

Though formed in Woman’s purest mould; Though form’d ’mid crowds and courts to shine; Though in thy pow’r to stand enroll’d, The boast of M----’s favour’d line:

Yet has that hand which kings might prize, Deign’d to relieve the poor man’s wo, 10 Yet have those all-subduing eyes, With Pity’s dew-drop deign’d to flow.

Thy guardian angel hov’ring near, Soar’d upwards with that deed of thine, And as he dropt the applauding tear, Wrote down the name of C----.

TO LADY W----,

PLAYING ON THE HARP, ACCOMPANIED BY HER VOICE.

_Written Extempore, at the Age of Fifteen._

Cease, cease, in pity cease your lay; Would you melt the soul away? And, while such rapture you impart, Thrill the ear, but steal the heart?

Must every Godhead bring some grace, To aid th’ enchantment of your face? Must Venus give the beauty warm? Must Pallas mould the radiant form? Must Jove his lightnings yield, and sigh To see them melting in your eye? 10 But not, alas! with these content, To make us all your vot’ries bent, Oh, must Apollo too inspire, To burn our bosoms, all his fire?

AN ODE

TO THE MUSE OF VERSE.

Irregular,

_Written at Fourteen_.

O come, thou Goddess ever fair, Who lov’st to braid thy golden hair With many a wreath of laurel bright, From old Parnassus’ sacred height! Whither, beneath some time-devoted tow’r, Thou lov’st to pass the solitary hour; And slowly-solemn pour along the pensive verse, Or the bright deeds of chivalry rehearse; And view by fairy Fancy’s magic sway, Old deeds long done, and years long past away. 10

Or, if beneath some spreading tree, Thou lov’st the sounds of jollity; And, with thy laughing song, to raise The rural dance’s sportive maze; While, oft attracted by thy song, Nymphs and satyrs join the throng, And interweaving at the sound, Lightly skim the verdant ground; While every bird, on every tree, Is lull’d to catch the melody: 20 And e’en the zephyr’s wanton gale, Moves not a leaf amid the dale, But folds his wings, and creeping near, Imbibes the notes with ravish’d ear; And when is broke the silver tone, When Rapture’s fled, and thou art gone, Still, still, he linger’s o’er the scene Where Poesy divine has been, And strives again, though vainly, to rehearse The fire of Music, and the soul of Verse. 30

Or by rose-embalm’d bow’r, or murmuring stream, If Love, king of passions, inspires thy theme; That blessing the purest, to man, from above, They gave us all, all, in that blessing of love. Oh still let me hov’ring nigh, Strive to catch the heav’nly fire, When with wildly-beaming eye, Glancing upward to the sky, As if to seize the spirit there, Thy tresses streaming to the air, 40 Thou strik’st the hallow’d lyre. Oh who can tell the heart’s ecstatic play, So sweetly pensive, so sublimely pure, When wand’ring far from world’s disgusting lure, The Muse bewitching wafts the soul away.

In sickness, pain, or care, or strife, In all the woes that wait on life, Thy pow’r can soothing balm impart, And lull to sleep the breaking heart.

Come then, Goddess, if from high, 50 E’er thou’st heard thy vot’ry sigh, Come, and o’er my ravish’d soul Hold thy soft, thy sweet control! O let me soar on Fancy’s wing, Where Piërus pours his sacred spring, And while such joys divine thy pow’r can give, Beneath thy reign, O ever let me live!

ODE TO A POKER.

_Written at Thirteen Years Old._

Hail, blithsome wand, and bring with thee, Dancing mirth, and airy glee! When the laughing jest goes round, And sparkling wit’s enliv’ning sound; By the fire, thy cheerful mien On winter’s dark’ning eve is seen.

Oft thy gladsome stirs inspire Strains from Bard’s poetic lyre; Of winning love, or times of old; Of courtly dames, and barons bold; 10 Or some high deed of ancient knight, Achiev’d in tournament, or fight. Oft, when ’gainst the echoing shore, The hail-drops beat, the tempests roar, Shelter’d from the raging storm, The trav’ller warms his cold-pinch’d form. With thee in hand, derides the rain, Beating down the glassy pane.

Oft when, at some ghostly tale, With fear, each ruddy cheek is pale; 20 And half-asham’d, and half-dismay’d, They startle at each other’s shade; And fancying, that the ghost they saw, Around the fire they nearer draw; Then, perhaps, some hoary sire Stirs, with thee, the waning fire; And every eye, now grown more bold, Explores the curtain’s mystic fold, Where just before, by terror’s aid, They saw the spectre’s gliding shade; 30 And laughing at each other’s fears, Again the wonted blush appears.

And oft, when talk has ebb’d apace, And melancholy shewed her face; Thy spirit-rousing aid once more, Renew’d the pleasure lost before. Friendship, love, and all that life Yields to cheer this scene of strife, Courting oft thy fairy pow’r, Gaily pass the jovial hour, 40 While joy and mirth new blessings bring, And care, awhile, forgets her sting.

TO K----

THE SEAT OF MRS. ----

_Written at Fifteen Years Old._

Hail, lofty domes, hail, venerable place, The noble dwelling of a nobler race. High on an hill, thy stately fabric rears Its ancient summit, mark’d by rolling years; By woods surrounded, and by fertile fields, Thy cultur’d soil abundant plenty yields. Here, giant groves in sweeping grandeur rise, There, lengthen’d prospects meet th’ admiring eyes. But thou, who gazest on yon graceful dome, That seems to rival e’en the works of Rome, 10 Where blooms life’s fading emblem, yonder rose, ’Tis there, the ashes of the dead repose!

Oh pause thou there, this awful lesson learn, “That dust thou art, to dust shalt thou return.” Now from the heav’ns, the queen of twilight grey, Mellows each object with her silvery ray. ’Tis silence all!--’tis that lone pensive hour, When Fancy reigns in all her magic pow’r, When o’er the poet’s lull’d, enraptur’d soul, She holds her sweet, her undefin’d control! 20

K----, how chang’d from those old feudal hours, When minstrel’s music echoed through thy tow’rs; When steel-clad knights rode forth in glorious pride, And led their troops to combat by their side. Or at their castles tournaments proclaim, And enter lists, to gain the wreath of fame. From beauty’s hand receive the valued meed, While plauding shouts approve the martial deed. And when the gath’ring shades of eve would call Our great forefathers to the festive hall, 30 There, in vast bowls, the grape’s rich liquor pour’d, And wholesome viands smok’d along the board; Such as were wont an hero’s hall to grace, Ere yet, refinement reach’d our hardy race;-- Ere yet, we learn’d, from nations we subdued, To spurn at Freedom’s hospitable food. To every lip the joyous toast went round, And frolic laughter gambol’d o’er the ground; While from the lofty gallery swell’d the lays, Of some past deed of old heroic days; 40 Perhaps of Britain’s sable chief, who bore His conq’ring standard to the Gallic shore. Perhaps of R----[9], gallant knight! who led His country’s warriors to his country’s aid! Perhaps they sung the softest, brightest fire, That ever yet has burst from minstrel’s lyre. Almighty love, whose sigh-inflated sail Wafts, more than bliss, on ev’ry halcyon gale. How warlike Henry[10] joy’d to lay aside The glare of rank, the pageantry of pride: 50 At beauty’s feet, he cast his regal pow’r, And sought for smiles at Rosamond’s lov’d bow’r: Ah! hapless Rosamond, condemn’d to prove The penalty, that waits on lawless love! But now, “the bashful virgin’s sidelong” glance Delights her partner in the mazy dance. And he, who foremost in the lists that day, Bore the rich prize of martial fame away;-- Whose crest shone proudest of the youthful band, With joy, receives the fairest lady’s hand. 60 The old look on, and seem again to share In each light movement of the graceful pair; Or talk of deeds long done, of years gone by; Of many an ancient feat of chivalry. While each proud banner, won in glory’s cause, The spoils of conquest, seem’d to wave applause. See, in yon nook, retir’d, the love-sick youth Pays his fond vows of ever-lasting truth; While the soft maiden’s blushing looks reveal A tale so dear, that love alone can feel! 70

K----, ere yet the hand of taste around, Display’d the charms with which thy scenes are crown’d, The drooping dryads of thy proud domain, Of cold neglect, proclaim’d the ruin’d reign. Thy falling fabric seem’d in vain to moan, Its glories tarnish’d, and its beauties gone: The weed’s rank verdure overspread the hearth, So late the scene of hospitable mirth;-- The moss’s velvet, and the violet’s blue, In wild luxuriance o’er the pavements grew;-- 80 Here bloom’d each flowret which the fields impart, The charms of Nature o’er the wrecks of art. Then, then, arose the last of all her race, To join each pow’r, her native house to grace;-- Again to raise the beauties of thy pile, With added lustre, make her K---- smile;-- Again thy halls, the graceful dance shall bear, And heav’nly music charm the thrilling ear;-- Again thy doors shall open to receive The lordly noble, and the poor relieve;-- 90 Again shall taste and elegance impart Each varied scene, to charm the captive heart.

Mayst thou, the lov’d possessor, find repaid, By Friendship’s smile, the works thy hand has made; And mayst thou long live happy, to retrace The faded honours of thy ancient race; May virtue still her fairest flow’rs entwine, To form a wreath to grace the ---- line.

ON FRIENDSHIP.

_Written at Fourteen Years Old._

Hail, star of love, hail, offspring of the skies! That gilds our day, when darken’d storms arise;-- ’Tis thou that blunts affliction’s bitter dart, And turns the wound, averted from the heart. In all the changes that await mankind, In all the woes we here are doom’d to find,-- Thy hand, amid a world of care and strife, Scatters fresh roses o’er the paths of life. ’Tis not the fawning flatt’rer’s ready praise, Whose word is honey, but whose word betrays. 10 For, ah! while happiness yet gilds each hour, Ere yet adversity’s dark tempests low’r, Like flies in summer, basking in the ray Of prosp’rous sunshine, in thy golden day: Many thy followers, who pollute the name, With sordid lips, of hallow’d Friendship’s flame: But if thy sun, by gath’ring clouds o’erspread, Retract its beams--those followers all are fled,-- Not one remains of that late num’rous horde, 19 Who swore thee friendship, round thy genial board. From scenes like this, with stern indignant eye, True Friendship wings her rapid flight:--on high She views the venal slaves of guilt and gold, Purchas’d by int’rest, and by int’rest sold; Whom dark Dishonour, by the Stygian shore, An hideous progeny, to Mammon bore; Hypocrisy receiv’d them at their birth, And, nurs’d by her, they issued into earth.

Friendship’s soft pow’r, mild as the vernal gale That floats at eve o’er Tempè’s peaceful vale; 30 Holds her vast rule, unbounded by control, O’er the wide realms of the capacious soul; And spurns the limits of the little mind, To narrow thoughts, and mean ideas confin’d. For he, alone, can taste her purest streams-- He, he, alone, can feel her warmest beams, Whose breast ennobled, and whose soul refin’d, Display the treasures of an heav’n-taught mind; Enrich’d with every virtue, that can lend Her pow’rful aid, to form a perfect friend; 40 Proud in the pride which dignifies the heart, That scorns deceit, and spurns each baser art; In whose high front, and spirit-rousing eye, Bright honour beams in all her majesty;-- Sublimely humble, virtuously bold, Unmov’d by flatt’ry, and unbrib’d by gold. Vot’ries like this, can feel her pow’r sublime, Begun by virtue, and matur’d by time;-- Vot’ries like this, once reverenced her laws, And prov’d them worthy of so great a cause. 50

Oh! ye twin stars[11], who grace the spangled sphere, When night’s dark shadows o’er the heav’ns appear; And ye, bright patterns of her sacred reign[12], Who bound the tyrant in her silver chain! And thou, O Salem’s king[13], whose heav’n-taught lyre, In sacred strains, Jehovah deign’d t’ inspire; And all ye ancient vot’ries of her name, Be ye the mighty witness of the same!

Ah! now how changed!--for scarce one ling’ring trace Proves us descendants of our former race; 60 All things degen’rate! e’en the present times Shall seem ennobled, by our future crimes. True Friendship, now, appears but as a dream,-- Th’ historian’s subject, or the muse’s theme. Long might we search, and long might search in vain, Him, who, to save his friend a _moment’s pain_, Would set the world and all its charms, at nought; And think, e’en life was far too dearly bought. What venal lips now utter Friendship’s name, And strive to counterfeit her heav’nly flame; 70 How few the souls, o’er whom she deigns to reign; And, ah! how few would bear her silver chain! For her swift wing, like Love’s, disdains all ties, O’er boundless seas and trackless deserts flies; And scorns those barriers, which th’ ignoble prize.

Oh! thou soft soother of our earthly wo, Grant, from my heart thy precious streams to flow! For what is grief, or pain, or cank’ring care, When ev’ry pang, another seeks to share. And when our night of sorrow glides away, 80 And joy, returning, gilds the opening day; Ah! what avails it, if no friendly heart Bears, in that joy, a sympathizing part:-- For, as the laurel, (through the winter’s gloom, When all her leafy rivals cease to bloom, And when each drooping tree, by nature bound, No longer waves its foliage o’er the ground,) Maintains her verdure unimpair’d, and green, And shines conspicuous mid the icy scene: So does true Friendship, in misfortune’s hour, 90 When wint’ry storms o’er life’s gay sunshine low’r;-- When false pretenders, base, and servile band, Chill at the touch of fortune’s alter’d wand; So does she cheer the solitary scene, Glows ever-warm, and blossoms ever-green.

IRREGULAR LINES.

_Written at Fifteen Years Old._

There’s not a heart, whose inward shrine Reflects one throb that rouses mine! That when young Pleasure rises high, Can give the smile to Friendship dear; When Sorrow prompts the speaking sigh, Can waft its answer,--on the tear. And yet the world can freely share, In boist’rous mirth, in vulgar care:-- Albeit it marvels, when the soul Escapes its tinsell’d, vain control, 10 To joy, or weep alone. For, ah! how few, alas! can find _One_ dear, _one_ sympathizing mind, In un’son with their own.

I’ve stood in crowds, where all was gay, Where Pleasure held her roseate sway; And there, mid hundreds met to show’r Fresh flowrets o’er the laughing hour; I’ve stood, and felt that lonely feel, As keen, as cold, as piercing steel, 20 Which whispers,--What to thee, this crowd? The vulgar great, the reckless proud?-- On whose unvaried, smiling face, Not one congenial thought you trace. There, nought but pleasure seems to shine, Like o’er the snow, the sun of spring, There ev’ry heart seems glad;--but thine Is cold, and sear’d, and withering. Oh, yes! unknowing, and unknown, Mid circling throngs--thou art alone! 30 But why, oh, why! should I complain? Before me life extends her plain, Which Hope, and Fancy lend their pow’rs, To gild with gold, or deck with flow’rs. What! though mid all the crowds of state, My wayward heart is desolate; Yet oft, I’ve felt the spirit’s play, That wafts from earth the soul away; When the calm eye, or musing ear, Gives nought of life, or motion near; 40 To gaze upon the heav’ns, so still, so fair, (Oh, who can feel a grief, while gazing there?) To mark, when night extends her sable reign, Th’ unnumber’d worlds of that ethereal plain, Till snatch’d from earth, the soul appears to spring To those high realms, on Rapture’s hallow’d wing.

To change the view!--To note the spreading scene, The mountain’s grandeur, or the valley’s green; Or mark the murm’ring riv’let’s wavy blue Catch, from the skies, their own harmonious hue; 50 And (as the moonlight o’er the water throws, The light that, like the virgin, trembling glows,) To hear, in thought, th’ aërial Sylphids sweep Their wings of sapphire o’er the beaming deep: While the old oak-tree, blasted by the storm, Spreads o’er the waves its venerable form; And the hoarse breeze, that, whisp’ring, rushes near, Gives wild, unearthly music to the ear, Till Fancy shews the Druids’ ancient train, Strike their bold harps, and slowly sweep the plain. Or, if the roaring tempest courts the sight;-- 61 For scene or dread, or gentle, can delight The lofty soul;--how sweet, on some sear’d rock, To mark the warring element’s rough shock; To smile unmov’d, while bursting thunders roll, And the red flames of lightning flash the pole; And calm, uninjur’d, mid the blazing storm, Like some proud tow’r, to rear the godlike form. Then, while the conflict fierce he joys to scan, Man well can feel the majesty of man. 70 Yet this, when all the spirits beam, In loveliest, loftiest, holiest mood, The world’s vain, heartless vot’ries deem, The cheerless gloom of solitude. What! is it Solitude to hold Rich commune with the soul’s high pow’r? To mark its various buds unfold, The bloom, the beauty of the flow’r? What! is it Solitude to trace, The hand of heav’n in Nature’s face? 80 ’Tis then the rising breast can throw Its deathless essence, far from aught That savours of the world below; And, with the beings rear’d by thought, Can oft converse in Fancy’s shrine, Until it feels an heav’n-born ray, Around in mystic beamings play, And mix a something half-divine. Oh! ’tis not Solitude!--’tis more Than life--than earth--than all can give; 90 ’Tis on the wings of heav’n to soar-- ’Tis in the land of bliss to live.

STANZAS TO LYRA.

_Written at Fifteen Years Old._

The hour for love, in all its bliss, In all its purity of truth, Is, when time prints his earliest kiss Upon the open brow of youth;--

When all the heart is on the sigh, That love has never heav’d before; When the soft language of the eye Tells all the rising bosom’s core.

Yes, yes, my Lyra, love like mine, Form’d in the orient dawn of day, 10 That spark of ecstasy divine, Time never, never can decay.

Yes, I may rove from flow’r to flow’r, Yes, I may sip the roseate dew, But still, believe me, ev’ry hour, The heart will turn to love, and you!

Whene’er you mark man’s darken’d hue,-- Whene’er you hear him swear to prove, For ever, to your beauties, true, Believe him not!--he cannot love! 20

But, when yon view the glance of shame, But, when you catch the falt’ring tone Of youth, first warm’d to passion’s flame, Oh! that is love,--and love alone!

GERALDINE;

OR,

_THE FATAL BOON_.

A ROMANTIC TALE.

_Written at Fourteen._

GERALDINE.