Chapter 24

His steps are not upon thy paths--thy fields Are not a spoil for him--thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals,-- The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war,-- These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-- Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since: their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts;--not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play. Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests: in all time, Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime; The image of eternity, the throne Of the Invisible: even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.

THE SHIPWRECK

From 'Don Juan'

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is masked but to assail; Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale, And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

. . . . . . .

There was no light in heaven but a few stars; The boats put off, o'ercrowded with their crews: She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, And going down head foremost--sunk, in short.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell! Then shrieked the timid and stood still the brave; Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave; And the sea yawned around her like a hell, And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And tries to strangle him before he die.

At first one universal shriek there rushed, Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder: and then all was hushed, Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Of billows; but at intervals there gushed, Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek--the bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

LOVE ON THE ISLAND

From 'Don Juan'

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, Circling all nature, hushed, and dim, and still, With the far mountain-crescent half-surrounded On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill Upon the other, and the rosy sky, With one star sparkling through it like an eye.

And thus they wandered forth, and hand in hand, Over the shining pebbles and the shells, Glided along the smooth and hardened sand, And in the worn and wild receptacles Worked by the storms, yet worked as it were planned, In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, They turned to rest; and, each clasped by an arm, Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm.

They looked up to the sky, whose floating glow Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; They gazed upon the glittering sea below, Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low, And saw each other's dark eyes darting light Into each other--and, beholding this, Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss:

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth and love And beauty, all concentrating like rays Into one focus, kindled from above; Such kisses as belong to early days, Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze, Each kiss a heart-quake--for a kiss's strength, I think, it must be reckoned by its length.

By length I mean duration; theirs endured Heaven knows how long--no doubt they never reckoned; And if they had, they could not have secured The sum of their sensations to a second: They had not spoken; but they felt allured, As if their souls and lips each other beckoned, Which, being joined, like swarming bees they clung-- Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.

They were alone, but not alone as they Who, shut in chambers, think it loneliness; The silent ocean, and the starlit bay, The twilight glow, which momently grew less, The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay Around them, made them to each other press, As if there were no life beneath the sky Save theirs, and that their life could never die.

They feared no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, They felt no terrors from the night; they were All in all to each other: though their speech Was broken words, they _thought_ a language there; And all the burning tongues the passions teach Found in one sigh the best interpreter Of nature's oracle, first love,--that all Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall.

And when those deep and burning moments passed, And Juan sank to sleep within her arms, She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, Sustained his head upon her bosom's charms; And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, Pillowed on her o'erflowing heart, which pants With all it granted, and with all it grants.

An infant when it gazes on the light, A child the moment when it drains the breast A devotee when soars the Host in sight, An Arab with a stranger for a guest, A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, A miser filling his most hoarded chest, Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping, As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.

For there it lies, so tranquil, so beloved; All that it hath of life with us is living; So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving. All it hath felt, inflicted, passed, and proved, Hushed into depths beyond the watcher's diving: There lies the thing we love, with all its errors And all its charms, like death without its terrors.

The lady watched her lover--and that hour Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, O'erflowed her soul with their united power; Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude, She and her wave-worn love had made their bower Where naught upon their passion could intrude; And all the stars that crowded the blue space Saw nothing happier than her glowing face.

Alas, the love of women! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone, And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly and quick and crushing; yet as real Torture is theirs--what they inflict they feel.

THE TWO BUTTERFLIES

From 'The Giaour'

As, rising on its purple wing, The insect queen of eastern spring O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower, A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye: So beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wing as wild,-- A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betrayed, Woe waits the insect and the maid: A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play and man's caprice. The lovely toy so fiercely sought Hath lost its charm by being caught, For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brushed its brightest hues away, Till, charm and hue and beauty gone, 'Tis left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing or bleeding breast, Ah, where shall either victim rest? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before? Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower? No: gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woe a tear can claim, Except an erring sister's shame.

TO HIS SISTER

From 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage'

The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine; And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine. And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene which I should see With double joy, wert _thou_ with me!

And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray. And many a rock which steeply lours, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine-- Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me; Though long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must withered be. But yet reject them not as such; For I have cherished them as dear. Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou beholdest them drooping nigh, And knowest them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine!

The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

ODE TO NAPOLEON

Tis done--but yesterday a King, And armed with Kings to strive; And now thou art a nameless thing, So abject--yet alive! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive? Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind Who bowed so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught'st the rest to see. With might unquestioned--power to save-- Thine only gift hath been the grave To those that worshiped thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition's less than littleness!

Thanks for that lesson--it will teach To after-warriors more Than high Philosophy can preach, And vainly preached before. That spell upon the minds of men Breaks never to unite again, That led them to adore Those pagod things of sabre sway, With fronts of brass and feet of clay.

The triumph and the vanity, The rapture of the strife[110]-- The earthquake voice of Victory, To thee the breath of life-- The sword, the sceptre, and that sway Which man seemed made but to obey, Wherewith renown was rife-- All quelled!--Dark Spirit! what must be The madness of thy memory!

The Desolator desolate! The victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others' fate A Suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope That with such change can calmly cope, Or dread of death alone? To die a prince, or live a slave-- Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

He who of old would rend the oak[111] Dreamed not of the rebound; Chained by the trunk he vainly broke-- Alone--how looked he round! Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found: He fell, the forest prowlers' prey; But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Roman,[112] when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger--dared depart In savage grandeur, home: He dared depart, in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandoned power.

The Spaniard,[113] when the lust of sway Had lost its quickening spell, Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well: Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

But thou--from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung; Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean!

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb, And thanked him for a throne! Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear In humblest guise have shown. Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind A brighter name to lure mankind!

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Nor written thus in vain-- Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, Or deepen every stain: If thou hadst died, as honor dies, Some new Napoleon might arise, To shame the world again; But who would soar the solar height, To set in such a starless night?

Weighed in the balance, hero dust Is vile as vulgar clay; Thy scales, Mortality! are just To all that pass away; But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay: Nor deemed Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride, How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem-- 'Tis worth thy vanished diadem!

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, And gaze upon the sea; That element may meet thy smile-- It ne'er was ruled by thee! Or trace with thine all idle hand, In loitering mood upon the sand, That Earth is now as free! That Corinth's pedagogue[114] hath now Transferred his byword to thy brow.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage, What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prisoned rage? But one--"The world _was_ mine!" Unless, like him of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone, Life will not long confine That spirit poured so widely forth-- So long obeyed--so little worth!

FOOTNOTES:

[110] "Certaminis gaudia"--the expression of Attila in his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Châlons.

[111] Milo of Croton.

[112] Sulla.

[113] The Emperor Charles V., who abdicated in 1555.

[114] Dionysius of Sicily, who, after his fall, kept a school at Corinth.

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO

From 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage'

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat, And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well, Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness: And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts; and choking sighs, Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! They come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instills The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's teardrops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms--the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!

MAZEPPA'S RIDE

From 'Mazeppa'

The last of human sounds which rose, As I was darted from my foes, Was the wild shout of savage laughter, Which on the wind came roaring after A moment from that rabble rout: With sudden wrath I wrenched my head, And snapped the cord which to the mane Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, And, writhing half my form about, Howled back my curse; but 'midst the tread, The thunder of my courser's speed, Perchance they did not hear nor heed; It vexes me--for I would fain Have paid their insult back again. I paid it well in after days: There is not of that castle gate, Its drawbridge and portcullis weight, Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; Nor of its fields a blade of grass, Save what grows on a ridge of wall, Where stood the hearthstone of the hall; And many a time ye there might pass, Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: I saw its turrets in a blaze, Their crackling battlements all cleft, And the hot lead pour down like rain From off the scorched and blackening roof, Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. They little thought, that day of pain When, launched as on the lightning's flash, They bade me to destruction dash, That one day I should come again, With twice five thousand horse, to thank The Count for his uncourteous ride. They played me then a bitter prank, When, with the wild horse for my guide, They bound me to his foaming flank: At length I played them one as frank-- For time at last sets all things even-- And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil long Of him who treasures up a wrong.

. . . . . . .

We rustled through the leaves like wind, Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind. By night I heard them on the track, Their troop came hard upon our back, With their long gallop, which can tire The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire: Where'er we flew they followed on, Nor left us with the morning sun; Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, At daybreak winding through the wood, And through the night had heard their feet Their stealing, rustling step repeat. Oh! how I wished for spear or sword, At least to die amidst the horde, And perish--if it must be so-- At bay, destroying many a foe. When first my courser's race begun, I wished the goal already won; But now I doubted strength and speed. Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed Had nerved him like the mountain roe; Not faster falls the blinding snow Which whelms the peasant near the door Whose threshold he shall cross no more, Bewildered with the dazzling blast, Than through the forest-paths he passed-- Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; All furious as a favored child Balked of its wish; or fiercer still-- A woman piqued--who has her will.

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