Chapter 25

Onward we went--but slack and slow: His savage force at length o'erspent, The drooping courser, faint and low, All feebly foaming went.... At length, while reeling on our way, Methought I heard a courser neigh, From out yon tuft of blackening firs. Is it the wind those branches stirs? No, no! from out the forest prance A trampling troop; I see them come! In one vast squadron they advance! I strove to cry--my lips were dumb. The steeds rush on in plunging pride; But where are they the reins to guide? A thousand horse--and none to ride! With flowing tail, and flying mane, Wide nostrils, never stretched by pain, Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscarred by spur or rod, A thousand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on, As if our faint approach to meet; The sight re-nerved my courser's feet; A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh, He answered, and then fell; With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immovable-- His first and last career is done!

THE IRISH AVATÀR

Ere the Daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, To the long-cherished Isle which he loved like his--bride.

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won, Which betrayed not, or crushed not, or wept not her cause.

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags; The castle still stands, and the senate's no more; And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.

To her desolate shore--where the emigrant stands For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! Like a goodly leviathan rolled from the waves! Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves!

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part-- But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er! Could the green in his _hat_ be transferred to his _heart_!

Could that long-withered spot but be verdant again, And a new spring of noble affections arise-- Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain, And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? Were he God--as he is but the commonest clay, With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow-- Such servile devotion might shame him away.

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride; Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.

Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good! So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest! With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued, And his rival or victor in all he possessed.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, Though unequaled, preceded, the task was begun; But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb Of ages, the first, last, the savior, the _one_!

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute; With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; Even Tyranny, listening, sate melted or mute, And corruption shrunk scorched from the glance of his mind.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! Feasts furnished by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! True Freedom but _welcomes_, while slavery still _raves_, When a week's Saturnalia hath loosened her chain.

Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) Gild over the palace. Lo! Erin, thy lord! Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied!

Or _if_ freedom past hope be extorted at last, If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, Must what terror or policy wring forth be classed With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their prey?

Each brute hath its nature; a king's is to _reign_,-- To _reign_! in that word see, ye ages, comprised The cause of the curses all annals contain, From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised!

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim His accomplishments! _His!!!_ and thy country convince Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, And that "Hal is the rascalliest, sweetest _young_ prince!"

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs? Or has it not bound thee the fastest of all The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?

Ay! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite! Till like Babel the new royal dome hath arisen! Let thy beggars and Helots their pittance unite-- And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison!

Spread--spread for Vitellius the royal repast, Till the gluttonous despot be stuffed to the gorge! And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last The Fourth of the fools and oppressors called "George"!

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan! Till they _groan_ like thy people, through ages of woe! Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, Like their blood which has flowed, and which yet has to flow.

But let not _his_ name be thine idol alone-- On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own! A wretch never named but with curses and jeers!

Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth, Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, Seems proud of the reptile which crawled from her earth, And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile!

Without one single ray of her genius, without The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race-- The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt If _she_ ever gave birth to a being so base.

If she did--let her long-boasted proverb be hushed, Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring: See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flushed, Still warming its folds in the breast of a King!

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! O Erin, how low Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still!

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right: My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free; This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight, And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for _thee_!

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land; I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons, And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once.

For happy are they now reposing afar,-- Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all Who for years were the chiefs in the eloquent war, And redeemed, if they have not retarded, thy fall.

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day,-- Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves Be stamped in the turf o'er their fetterless clay.

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled; There was something so warm and sublime in the core Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy--thy _dead_.

Or if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore. Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power, 'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore!

THE DREAM

I

Our life is twofold: sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence; sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality; And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity; They pass like spirits of the past,--they speak Like sibyls of the future; they have power-- The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; They make us what we were not--what they will, And make us with the vision that's gone by, The dread of vanished shadows.--Are they so? Is not the past all shadow? What are they? Creations of the mind?--The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dreamed Perchance in sleep--for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour.

II

I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs;--the hill Was crowned with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, Not by the sport of nature, but of man: These two, a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing--the one on all that was beneath Fair as herself--but the boy gazed on her; And both were young, and one was beautiful; And both were young, yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him; he had looked Upon it till it could not pass away; He had no breath, no being, but in hers; She was his voice; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words; she was his sight, For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, Which colored all his objects;--he had ceased To live within himself; she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all: upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, And his cheek change tempestuously--his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony. But she in these fond feelings had no share: Her sighs were not for him; to her he was Even as a brother--but no more: 'twas much, For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestowed on him; Herself the solitary scion left Of a time-honored race.--It was a name Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not--and why? Time taught him a deep answer--when she loved Another; even _now_ she loved another, And on the summit of that hill she stood Looking afar if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

III

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparisoned. Within an antique oratory stood The boy of whom I spake;--he was alone, And pale, and pacing to and fro; anon He sat him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of: then he leaned His bowed head on his hands, and shook as 'twere With a convulsion--then arose again, And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears. And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet: as he paused, The lady of his love re-entered there; She was serene and smiling then, and yet She knew she was by him beloved,--she knew, For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw That he was wretched; but she saw not all. He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp He took her hand; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, and then it faded as it came; He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed From out the massy gate of that old hall, And mounting on his steed he went his way, And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more.

IV

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer. There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couched among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruined walls that had survived the names Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fastened near a fountain; and a man Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumbered around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.

V

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love was wed with one Who did not love her better: in her home, A thousand leagues from his,--her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, Daughters and sons of beauty,--but behold! Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. What could her grief be?--she had all she loved, And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be?--she had loved him not, Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, Nor could he be a part of that which preyed Upon her mind--a spectre of the past.

VI

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The wanderer was returned.--I saw him stand Before an altar with a gentle bride; Her face was fair, but was not that which made The star-light of his boyhood;--as he stood Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock That in the antique oratory shook His bosom in its solitude; and then-- As in that hour--a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced--and then it faded as it came, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reeled around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been-- But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, And the remembered chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny came back, And thrust themselves between him and the light: What business had they there at such a time?

VII

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love--oh! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. And this the world calls frenzy: but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift; What is it but the telescope of truth? Which strips the distance of its phantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real!

VIII

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The wanderer was alone as heretofore; The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compassed round With hatred and contention; pain was mixed In all which was served up to him, until, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men And made him friends of mountains: with the stars And the quick spirit of the universe He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of night was opened wide, And voices from the deep abyss revealed A marvel and a secret--Be it so.

IX

My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality--the one To end in madness--both in misery.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY

From 'Hebrew Melodies'

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear, their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

FROM 'THE PRISONER OF CHILLON'

My hair is gray, but not with years. Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears; My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are banned and barred--forbidden fare: But this was for my father's faith I suffered chains and courted death; That father perished at the stake For tenets he would not forsake; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling-place; We were seven who now are one, Six in youth, and one in age, Finished as they had begun, Proud of persecution's rage; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have sealed; Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied; Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last.

There are seven pillars of Gothic mold In Chillon's dungeons deep and old; There are seven columns, massy and gray, Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left; Creeping o'er the floor so damp, Like a marsh's meteor lamp: And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain; That iron is a cankering thing, For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years--I cannot count them o'er; I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother drooped and died, And I lay living by his side....

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A thousand feet in depth below, Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave enthralls: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made--and like a living grave Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay; We heard it ripple night and day; Sounding o'er our heads it knocked; And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky; And then the very rock hath rocked, And I have felt it shake unshocked, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free.

PROMETHEUS

I

Titan! to whose immortal eyes The sufferings of mortality, Seen in their sad reality, Were not as things that gods despise: What was thy pity's recompense? A silent suffering, and intense: The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless.

II

Titan! to thee the strife was given Between the suffering and the will, Which torture where they cannot kill; And the inexorable Heaven, And the deaf tyranny of Fate, The ruling principle of Hate, Which for its pleasure doth create The things it may annihilate, Refused thee even the boon to die; The wretched gift eternity Was thine--and thou hast borne it well. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

III