Part 13
To be the executioners, or fall Beneath his creatures' hands. He has excited Amongst ourselves domestic insurrection; And sought to bring on the inhabitants Of our frontier the savage Indian, Whose code of warfare, merciless and sure, Spares not, in undistinguished massacre, Age, sex, condition. We, in every stage Of these oppressions, have in humblest terms Petitioned for redress. To our petitions, Though oft repeated, there has been _one_ answer-- Repeated injury. A prince, whose life And conduct thus are marked by every act That may define a Tyrant, is unfit To rule o'er Freemen. Neither have we failed In due attention to our British brethren. From time to time, we have admonished them Of efforts, by their Legislature made, Unwarrantably to extend to us Their jurisdiction. How we emigrated, And settled here, we have reminded them. We to their native justice have appealed And magnanimity; and have conjured them, By common kindred ties, to disavow These usurpations, which, inevitably, Would mar our intercourse and friendship. They Have also turned a deaf ear to the voice Of Justice and of Consanguinity. So must we yield to the necessity Which forces us to separate, and hold them--
As we do hold the rest of human kind-- Our enemies in War, in Peace our friends. We, therefore, who are here to represent The States United of America, In General Congress met, for rectitude Of our intentions to the Judge Supreme Of all things here in confidence appealing, Do, in the name, and by authority Of the good people of these Colonies, Solemnly publish and declare, that these United Colonies are, and of right Ought to be, Free and Independent States: That from allegiance to the British Crown They are absolved: That all connecting ties Of policy between them and Great Britain Are, as they should be, totally dissolved: And that, as Free and Independent States, They have full power to levy war, conclude Peace, and contract alliances, establish Commerce, and do all other acts and things Which Independent States of right may do. This is our Declaration: to support it, With firm reliance on Divine protection, We to each other mutually pledge Our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honour.
BEL PIEDE.
Browning, whose household gods were planted Beside the banks of classic Arno, Once, in a dainty ballad, chanted The lady of the _bella mano_.
Pass from the Arno to the Tiber, From Tuscan to a Roman lady; And let a humbler bard describe her-- This fair one of the _bel piede_.
To Roman dame, as I and you know, Is rarely given a foot symmetrical; No Cinderellas--many a Juno-- Upon the Pincian we can yet recall.
Those were the days when bonnets did not Expose the face to every starer; When skirts, worn short and airy, hid not The foot and ankle of the wearer.
With high arched instep, narrow, tapering, Divinely booted--none could beat hers-- The foot, that set my young heart capering, Came down the broad steps of St. Peter's.
Her long black veil, the crowd around me, Her swift landau, my swift emotion-- She came: her fairy foot spell-bound me; She went: which way, I had no notion.
Haunting all public haunts was fruitless, Mid solemn pomps, on festal hey-day; Search for those glorious boots was bootless: Rome showed no more my _bel piede_.
In Paris next enchained it held me, Through redowa, waltz, all sorts of dances; But mask and domino repelled me-- She moved, but I made no advances.
Again she passed--no trace behind her-- I sought, enquired, left nothing undone; But all was vain: I could not find her, And, in despair, set off for London.
The sea between Boulogne and Dover Was, as it always is, terrific; Against that awful passage over, Why not invent some smooth specific?
Cloaked, muffled, shawled, a form was leaning Across the gunwale, keeping shady; I recked not what might be its meaning-- I thought not, then, of _bel piede_.
Sudden, a lurch, a shriek, a splashing! I knew the shriek was from a lady; But horror through my brain went crashing-- I saw, heels up, my _bel piede_!
She sank. No more! But O ye mermaids, Of whose long tails we've had a surfeit, If ye were worthy to be her maids, You'd cut your tails, and copy her feet!
WHO IS HE?
_A Reply to Quevedo_.
These lines were suggested by some sprightly verses, entitled "Who is She?" that had recently appeared in _Fraser's Magazine_.
A Spanish writer once decided, In flippant song, That woman's lip, or tongue, or eye did All that went wrong. Nay, that the true mode of unmasking Her wiles would be, On all occasions simply asking-- Pray, who is she?
Now, why must woman's petticoats Aye be the blamables? How is't Quevedo never quotes Mankind's unnamables? He rates the sex, and certès for it he Makes a good plea; But can't I, on as good authority, Ask, who is he?
Quevedo swears that Eve and Helen Wrought dire mishaps: That Adam and the Trojans fell in Their deep-laid traps. Eve?--why Diabolus beguiled her; You know't, Quevedo! Helen?--that rascal Paris wiled her: That's Homer's _credo_!
Trust me, man causes woman's failing; And, on my life, He's always wantonly assailing Maid, widow, wife. Beneath the surface let the gazer Look deep--he'll see Some stronger vessel that betrays her: Just ask--who's he?
Is it a milk-maid drops her pailful?-- Lubin's love-making: Is her fate scandalous or baleful?-- Lubin's been raking! The school-girl loaths her bread and butter, Pouts o'er her tea, Mumbles her lessons in a flutter-- Ask, who is he?
Despite experience, what can set The widow hoping? Why are wives sometimes gadding met, And sometimes moping? Don't talk of widows' amorous bump, Of wives too free; But pop the question to them, plump-- Pray, who is he?
We're mighty prompt to throw the blame on The weaker fair sex; When justice ought to fix the shame on Ours--not on their sex. Ours the seduction and the fooling, If such there be: Come; your exception to this ruling-- Pray, who is he?
The old and hump-backed ply their battery Of gold and jewels; Well-knit young fellows deal in flattery, Dance, song, oaths, duels. So, to conclude, I'll take my oath, sir, Upon the Bible, That to blame one--in place of both, sir,-- Is a gross libel!
TO NINON.
_From the French of Alfred de Musset._
Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well, Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell? Love is the cause of many a pang--their source thou well can'st guess; No pity in him dwells, as thou must needs thyself confess: And yet, ah! me, thou would'st perchance chastise me ne'ertheless!
Were I to tell thee that, beneath six months of silence crushed, Long-hidden torments I have borne, and vows insensate hushed; Ninon, despite thy careless air, thou hast a searching eye, That, like a Fairy's, ere it come, what's coming can espy: "I know it all, I know it all," thou would'st perchance reply.
Were I to tell thee that I roam in sweet, delirious dream, Haunting thy footsteps so that I thy very shadow seem; A tinge of sadness on thy cheek, a quick, mistrustful glance,-- Ninon, thou knowest well that these thy loveliness enhance: And thus, that thou believest not, thou would'st reply perchance.
Were I to tell thee that my soul hoards up the lightest word, That falling from thy lips at eve in our discourse I've heard; Lady, thou know'st that, when aroused to anger or disdain, Eyes, though of azure they may be, can still their lightnings rain: And thine perchance would flashing say, "We must not meet again!"
Were I to tell thee that by night I wake and think of thee, And that by day for thee I pray, and weep on bended knee, Ah! Ninon, when thou laugh'st, the bee, as well thou art aware, In hovering round thy rosy mouth, that 'twas a flower might swear: Were I to tell thee all, perchance the laugh would still be there
But nothing shalt thou know of this. I venture, all untold, Calmly to sit beneath thy lamp, and converse with thee hold. I hear the murmur of thy voice, thy balmy breath inhale; And thou may'st doubt me, or surmise, or laugh, I shall not quail; Thine eyes shall see no cause in me, their kindly look to veil.
By stealth at times, in secret joy, mysterious flowers I glean, When o'er thy harpsichord at eve enraptured I can lean, And list from thy harmonious hands what fairy accents flow; Or in voluptuous waltz, as round with flying feet we go, I feel thee in mine arms, a reed, that's waving to and fro.
When from thy side I have been kept by thronged saloons at night, And in my chamber draw my bolt that shuts the world from sight, A thousand reminiscences I seize upon, and hold In jealous grasp; and there, alone, like miser o'er his gold, To Heaven my heart, all full of thee, with greedy joy unfold.
I love; and I have learned to speak in cool and careless tone. I love; nought tells of it. I love; who knows it?--I alone! Dear is my secret, dear the pain with which I am oppressed; And I have sworn to love, without a hope on which to rest; But not without a taste of joy--I see thee, and am blest.
No! not for me! I was not born such bliss supreme to meet: To die within thy arms, or live contented at thy feet. Alas! all proves it--e'en the grief that fain I would dispel. Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well: Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?
THE LAST OF THE ROMAN GLADIATORS.
The incident, which the following stanzas attempt to describe, is historical. It is related by Gibbon in his "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire."
Ye, who have the ruins seen Of the Coliseum's walls, Think ye, what the sight hath been Of Rome's highest festivals! If your fancy can restore Crumbled arch and corridor, Call forth the dead; Bid them fill again the seats, Where now Echo only greets The stranger's tread.
Fourteen hundred years are past, Rome hath fallen in her pride, Since the gladiator last In the Coliseum died. Fourteen hundred years ago, Tens of thousands thronged the show, In joyous guise, On the struggle and the strife, And the pangs of parting life, Feasting their eyes.
Then ye might have heard the roar Of the noble beasts of prey, As they fought and bled, before Men less noble far than they. Strength is useless, courage vain, Beauty saves not--they are slain, The forest race; Whilst the still unsated crowd For new victims shout aloud, To fill their place.
Hark! the Prætor's stern command Costlier sacrifice proclaims; Lo! the gladiatorial band, Glory of the Roman Games! As they enter, man by man, Shape and size the people scan With eager glance; And of each ill-fated pair, That await the signal there, Foretell the chance.
Hark! the trumpet's sudden sound; Lo! the work of death begun: Seas of blood shall drench the ground, Ere that deadly work be done. Ha! a moment of delay? What the lifted hand can stay? Is there a fear Of Pompeii's fiery shower? Or, doth Earthquake's giant power Make havoc here?
No--for Nature with a smile Looks upon her outraged laws, Man's indignant voice the while Bidding man in pity pause. See!--a monk, obscure, unknown, Christ's disciple, treads alone The arena's sand, Foe from foe intent to part, Striving with a zealous heart, But feeble hand.
Would ye seek to know his fate? Listen to that savage yell! Scorn, derision, fury, hate, Doomed his death--the martyr fell. Record there is none to show, Whose the hand that dealt the blow That laid him there; Men who gazed, and men who fought, All alike to madness wrought, The guilt must share.
Whether stoned to death, or slain By the sword, or by the spear, Little recks it--it were vain Through the mists of time to peer. This we know--the martyr died; Nor without success had plied His work of peace, Since, to expiate that deed, Rome's Imperial Lord decreed, The Games should cease.
Rome obeyed her Lord's commands; Never were those Games renewed: Now the priest of Jesus stands Where the gladiator stood. Thanks, Telemachus, to thee, Sainted martyr, now we see Altars around; And the spot, where thou of yore Did'st thy life-blood nobly pour, Is hallowed ground.
THE PRUDENT BRIDE.
At Salem Meeting-House, one summer day, Two lovers, Abby Purkis and John Cole, Were joined in holy wedlock. Off they started To spend the honey-moon, gregarious, At Trenton, Saratoga, and the Falls. Reaching this last-named wonder of the world, They went the usual round; mounted the tower That overlooks the cataract; stood and watched The eddying Rapids, and the whirling Pool; Nor on thy deck, O daring "_Maid of the Mist_," Failed they to buffet the tumultuous roar, The drenching spray, the seeming perilous plunge Beneath the Horse-Shoe. Every where, throughout, Abby was brave; nay, on John's stalwart arm Leaning, was confident. At last they reached The Cavern of the Winds. Then changed her bearing. Trembling, she paused. In truth, the howling blasts, And gusty moans as of imprisoned spirits, Struck the bride's soul with terror. All aghast, She stood before the entrance, and refused, Firmly refused to trust herself within. John urged--she would not; coaxed--'twas all in vain; Laughed at, and called her "little fool"--she would not. Nay more, she prayed him by the love he bore her Not to set foot himself within a place So fraught with peril. John was ungallant, And only laughed the more. Not he the man To flinch from fisticuffs with Æolus! Had he not harpooned whales in Arctic seas? Were not typhoon, white squall, and hurricane His some time playmates? It was her turn now To coax, and urge, and crave--and be denied. Chafed that her will was not a law to John, Abby was woman still, and sorely grieved That he should run such risks. She kissed him fondly, And bade him tread with care, and hasten back. Her voice was choked with sobs. Her latest words Were scarcely audible, though through them breathed Salem's sound training. "John," she faltered forth, "We know not what may happen: dear, dear John, "Were it not well that you--should--leave--with--me-- "Your--watch--and--pocket-book?"
THE TRAMPER'S BED--AND THE KING'S.
Down by the side of a sweet clover-stack, On a summer night, I lie on my back. Clear space is above me; and there, as I lie, I look straight up to the stars in the sky. Once, when the King was dethroned by the mob, They swarmed to his palace, to stare or to rob, And the frightened lackies flung open the doors, And clouted shoes scraped along polished floors. Then it was I caught sight of his Majesty's bed, With its canopy, gilded and carved, overhead;-- If his Majesty wishes the stars to behold, And looks up, he can see but the carving and gold! Some night, should my soul be unbound as I sleep, And downward an Angel in search of it sweep, No bar, no obstruction, would hinder his flight;-- With a wave of his wings, by my corpse he would light. But what, if the soul to be loosed were the King's? Could an Angel reach that by the poise of his wings? Could he easily cleave through a palace his way? Through ceilings bedizened, through floors in decay-- Through gorgeous apartments and bare attic rooms, For lords and for ladies, for valets and grooms-- Through a quaint peakèd roof rising high o'er the whole-- Could he enter, and tenderly waft off the soul? Better, then, is the bed by the sweet clover-stack, With the stars full in view, and the clear Angel's track! And though much be not mine of this world's pleasant things, I should care not to barter my couch for the King's!
OCCASION.
_From the Italian of Ternaré_
"Say, who art thou, with more than mortal air, Endowed by Heaven with gifts and graces rare, Whom restless, wingèd feet for ever onward bear?"--
"I am Occasion--known to few, at best; And since one foot upon a wheel I rest, Constant my movements are--they cannot be repressed.
"Not the swift eagle in his swiftest flight Can equal me in speed. My wings are bright; And man, who sees them waved, is dazzled by the sight.
"My thick and flowing locks, before me thrown, Conceal my form--nor face, nor breast is shown, That thus, as I approach, my coming be not known.
"Behind my head, no single lock of hair Invites the hand, that fain would it grasp there; But he, who lets me pass, to seize me may despair."
"Whom, then, so close behind thee do I see?"-- "Her name is Penitence; and Heaven's decree Hath made all those her prey, who profit not by me.
"And thou, O mortal, who dost vainly ply These curious questions, thou dost not descry, That now thy time is lost--for I am passing by."
THE MOURNFUL BALLAD OF THE "ALABAMA."
Captain Semmes is on a cruise O'er the track that skippers use; From the Western Isles, to those Near Nantucket shoals, he goes. Woe is me, Alabama!
Letters to the merchants tell Who into his clutches fell; 'Tis the talk of all the town; News-boys call it up and down Woe is me, Alabama!
Straight the sons of Commerce came To their Chamber, crying shame For the tidings they had learned, For their ships and cargoes burned. Woe is me, Alabama!
Up and spake a merchant prince: "Friends, our city well may wince, For you have, alas! to know Of a most disastrous blow! Woe is me, Alabama!
"All is sunk beneath the waves, Breadstuffs, lard, tobacco, staves; Chained have been our Captains bold In the 'Alabama's' hold! Woe is me, Alabama!
"Lawless, too, is Captain Semmes; Neutral shipments he condemns. Useless is it to appeal To Consul's signature and seal. Woe is me, Alabama!
"But there's worse than this behind; Treacherous friends this blow designed. Great as is the corsair's guilt, Greater theirs his ship who built! Woe is me, Alabama!
"Neutral money, neutral skill, Wrought us this outrageous ill; Neutral engines, neutral guns, Aid him as he fights or runs. Woe is me, Alabama!
"Sons of Commerce, men of worth, Let these words of mine go forth! Let the British monarch know That to her all this we owe!" Woe is me, Alabama!
So the warning words went forth To England, from the angered North, Passed along from mouth to mouth, "No more dealings with the South!" Woe is me, Alabama!
"You may sell to this our land All we want of contraband; But have a care that nothing goes, From you, a neutral, to our foes!" Woe is me, Alabama!
Now Heaven preserve us all in peace, And let these ugly squabbles cease! So fighters all, and standers-by, Shall nevermore have cause to cry, "Woe is me, Alabama!"
November, 1862.
LINES FOR THE GUITAR.
_From the French of Victor Hugo._
Man was saying: "How can we, In our little boats at sea, Pass the guarda-costas by?"-- "Row!" said Woman in reply.
Man was saying: "How forget Perils that our lives beset, Strife, and Poverty's low cry?"-- "Sleep!" said Woman in reply.
Man was saying: "How be sure Beauty's favour to secure, Nor the subtle philtre try?"-- "Love!" said Woman in reply.
THREE MEN AND A WOMAN.
A Summer's dawn and a tranquil sea; But lurid all with smoke: For a bark was burning furiously, What time the morning broke.
Terrible? ay, but risk there was none, For stern the Captain's sway; And when he spoke, each mother's son Could not but choose obey.
"Man the boats!"--the boats were manned, In order, one by one; To pull a hundred miles to land, All under the Summer's sun.
Four stalwart rowers bend to their oars: Four sitters at the stern-- Three men and a woman--silent sit, Watching the vessel burn.
They were no tremblers: each had known Perils by land and deep; But the woman alone would gently moan, And at times, perforce, would weep.
Yet soon the sun was high in heaven, And the sea was a-glow: and then The temper of those men peered out-- Of those three fearless men.
One thought his white hand by the sun would be tanned; One felt they were wrong to risk it, In sweltering heat, with nothing to eat But a bit of dry ship-biscuit.
The third brooded over his handful of freight Going down, uninsured, to the deep: But the woman alone would gently moan, And at times, perforce, would weep;
Till a sense of shame the three o'ercame, And a curious wish to know Why, still unfearing, she gave way To her uncomplaining woe.
"Ah, Sirs!"--she faltered in reply-- "The danger is easily braved: But my husband may hear that the ship is burnt-- And not that we are saved!"
ANOTHER MARBLE FAUN.
_A Translation of La Statue, by Victor Hugo._
He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen. 'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass Of leafless branches, with a blackened back And green foot--an old isolated Faun In old deserted park, who, bending forward, Half merged himself in the entangled boughs, Half in his marble settings. He was there, Pensive, and bound to the earth; and, as all things, Devoid of movement, he was there--forgotten.
Trees were around him, whipped by the icy blasts-- Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird, And, like himself, grown old in that same place. Through the dark network of their undergrowth, Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown. Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist. Trees more remote, with sombre shafts upreared, Each other crossed; and trees remoter still, By distance blurred, threw up to the grey sky Their thousand twigs sharp-pointed, intricate; And posed themselves around; and through the fog Took, on the horizon's verge, the shadowy form Of mighty porcupines in countless herd.
This--nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood.
Piercing the mist, perchance there might be seen A distant terrace--its long layers of stone Tinted with slimy green; or group of Nymphs, Dimly defined beside a wide-spread basin, And shrinking--fitly in this desolate park-- As once from gazers, from neglect to-day. The old Faun was laughing. In their dubious haze Leaving the shamed Nymphs and their dreary basin-- The old Faun was laughing--'twas to him I came Moved to compassion, for these sculptors all Are pitiless ever, and, content with praise, Doom Nymphs to shame, condemn the Fauns to laughter.
Poor helpless marble, how I've pitied it Less often man--the harder of the two. So then, without a word that might offend His ear difformed--for well the marble hears The voice of thought--I said to him: "You hail From the gay amorous age; O Faun, what saw you, When you were happy? Were you of the Court? Did you take part in fêtes?--For your diversion These Nymphs were fashioned. In this wood, for you, Capable hands mingled the gods of Greece With Roman Cæsars; made rare vases peer Into clear waters; and this garden vext With tortuous labyrinths. When you were happy, O Faun, what saw you? All the secrets tell Of that too vain yet captivating past, Thick set with prudent love-makers, a past In which great poets jostled mighty Kings. How fresh your memory--you are laughing still!