Chapter 2
"The sky is pure, the sparkling stream is clear: Unloose your zones, my maidens! and fling down To float awhile upon these bushes near Your blue transparent robes: take off my crown, And take away my jealous veil; for here To-day we shall be joyous while we lave Our limbs amid the murmur of the wave.
"Hasten; but through the fleecy mists of morn, What do I see? Look ye along the stream! Nay, timid maidens--we must not return! Coursing along the current, it would seem An ancient palm-tree to the deep sea borne, That from the distant wilderness proceeds, Downwards, to view our wondrous Pyramids.
"But stay! if I may surely trust mine eye,-- It is the bark of Hermes, or the shell Of Iris, wafted gently to the sighs Of the light breeze along the rippling swell; But no: it is a skiff where sweetly lies An infant slumbering, and his peaceful rest Looks as if pillowed on his mother's breast.
"He sleeps--oh, see! his little floating bed Swims on the mighty river's fickle flow, A white dove's nest; and there at hazard led By the faint winds, and wandering to and fro, The cot comes down; beneath his quiet head The gulfs are moving, and each threatening wave Appears to rock the child upon a grave.
"He wakes--ah, maids of Memphis! haste, oh, haste! He cries! alas!--What mother could confide Her offspring to the wild and watery waste? He stretches out his arms, the rippling tide Murmurs around him, where all rudely placed, He rests but with a few frail reeds beneath, Between such helpless innocence and death.
"Oh! take him up! Perchance he is of those Dark sons of Israel whom my sire proscribes; Ah! cruel was the mandate that arose Against most guiltless of the stranger tribes! Poor child! my heart is yearning for his woes, I would I were his mother; but I'll give If not his birth, at least the claim to live."
Thus Iphis spoke; the royal hope and pride Of a great monarch; while her damsels nigh, Wandered along the Nile's meandering side; And these diminished beauties, standing by The trembling mother; watching with eyes wide Their graceful mistress, admired her as stood, More lovely than the genius of the flood!
The waters broken by her delicate feet Receive the eager wader, as alone By gentlest pity led, she strives to meet The wakened babe; and, see, the prize is won! She holds the weeping burden with a sweet And virgin glow of pride upon her brow, That knew no flush save modesty's till now.
Opening with cautious hands the reedy couch, She brought the rescued infant slowly out Beyond the humid sands; at her approach Her curious maidens hurried round about To kiss the new-born brow with gentlest touch; Greeting the child with smiles, and bending nigh Their faces o'er his large, astonished eye!
Haste thou who, from afar, in doubt and fear, Dost watch, with straining eyes, the fated boy-- The loved of heaven! come like a stranger near, And clasp young Moses with maternal joy; Nor fear the speechless transport and the tear Will e'er betray thy fond and hidden claim, For Iphis knows not yet a mother's name!
With a glad heart, and a triumphal face, The princess to the haughty Pharaoh led The humble infant of a hated race, Bathed with the bitter tears a parent shed; While loudly pealing round the holy place Of Heaven's white Throne, the voice of angel choirs Intoned the theme of their undying lyres!
"No longer mourn thy pilgrimage below-- O Jacob! let thy tears no longer swell The torrent of the Egyptian river: Lo! Soon on the Jordan's banks thy tents shall dwell; And Goshen shall behold thy people go Despite the power of Egypt's law and brand, From their sad thrall to Canaan's promised land.
"The King of Plagues, the Chosen of Sinai, Is he that, o'er the rushing waters driven, A vigorous hand hath rescued for the sky; Ye whose proud hearts disown the ways of heaven! Attend, be humble! for its power is nigh Israel! a cradle shall redeem thy worth-- A Cradle yet shall save the widespread earth!"
_Dublin University Magazine, 1839_
ENVY AND AVARICE.
_("L'Avarice et l'Envie.")_
[LE CONSERVATEUR LITÉRAIRE, 1820.]
Envy and Avarice, one summer day, Sauntering abroad In quest of the abode Of some poor wretch or fool who lived that way-- You--or myself, perhaps--I cannot say-- Along the road, scarce heeding where it tended, Their way in sullen, sulky silence wended;
For, though twin sisters, these two charming creatures, Rivals in hideousness of form and features, Wasted no love between them as they went. Pale Avarice, With gloating eyes, And back and shoulders almost double bent, Was hugging close that fatal box For which she's ever on the watch Some glance to catch Suspiciously directed to its locks; And Envy, too, no doubt with silent winking At her green, greedy orbs, no single minute Withdrawn from it, was hard a-thinking Of all the shining dollars in it.
The only words that Avarice could utter, Her constant doom, in a low, frightened mutter, "There's not enough, enough, yet in my store!" While Envy, as she scanned the glittering sight, Groaned as she gnashed her yellow teeth with spite, "She's more than me, more, still forever more!"
Thus, each in her own fashion, as they wandered, Upon the coffer's precious contents pondered, When suddenly, to their surprise, The God Desire stood before their eyes. Desire, that courteous deity who grants All wishes, prayers, and wants; Said he to the two sisters: "Beauteous ladies, As I'm a gentleman, my task and trade is To be the slave of your behest-- Choose therefore at your own sweet will and pleasure, Honors or treasure! Or in one word, whatever you'd like best. But, let us understand each other--she Who speaks the first, her prayer shall certainly Receive--the other, the same boon _redoubled!_"
Imagine how our amiable pair, At this proposal, all so frank and fair, Were mutually troubled! Misers and enviers, of our human race, Say, what would you have done in such a case? Each of the sisters murmured, sad and low "What boots it, oh, Desire, to me to have Crowns, treasures, all the goods that heart can crave, Or power divine bestow, Since still another must have always more?"
So each, lest she should speak before The other, hesitating slow and long Till the god lost all patience, held her tongue. He was enraged, in such a way, To be kept waiting there all day, With two such beauties in the public road; Scarce able to be civil even, He wished them both--well, not in heaven.
Envy at last the silence broke, And smiling, with malignant sneer, Upon her sister dear, Who stood in expectation by, Ever implacable and cruel, spoke "I would be blinded of _one_ eye!"
_American Keepsake_
ODES.--1818-28.
KING LOUIS XVII.
_("En ce temps-là du ciel les portes.")_
[Bk. I. v., December, 1822.]
The golden gates were opened wide that day, All through the unveiled heaven there seemed to play Out of the Holiest of Holy, light; And the elect beheld, crowd immortal, A young soul, led up by young angels bright, Stand in the starry portal.
A fair child fleeing from the world's fierce hate, In his blue eye the shade of sorrow sate, His golden hair hung all dishevelled down, On wasted cheeks that told a mournful story, And angels twined him with the innocent's crown, The martyr's palm of glory.
The virgin souls that to the Lamb are near, Called through the clouds with voices heavenly clear, God hath prepared a glory for thy brow, Rest in his arms, and all ye hosts that sing His praises ever on untired string, Chant, for a mortal comes among ye now; Do homage--"'Tis a king."
And the pale shadow saith to God in heaven: "I am an orphan and no king at all; I was a weary prisoner yestereven, My father's murderers fed my soul with gall. Not me, O Lord, the regal name beseems. Last night I fell asleep in dungeon drear, But then I saw my mother in my dreams, Say, shall I find her here?"
The angels said: "Thy Saviour bids thee come, Out of an impure world He calls thee home, From the mad earth, where horrid murder waves Over the broken cross her impure wings, And regicides go down among the graves, Scenting the blood of kings."
He cries: "Then have I finished my long life? Are all its evils over, all its strife, And will no cruel jailer evermore Wake me to pain, this blissful vision o'er? Is it no dream that nothing else remains Of all my torments but this answered cry, And have I had, O God, amid my chains, The happiness to die?
"For none can tell what cause I had to pine, What pangs, what miseries, each day were mine; And when I wept there was no mother near To soothe my cries, and smile away my tear. Poor victim of a punishment unending, Torn like a sapling from its mother earth, So young, I could not tell what crime impending Had stained me from my birth.
"Yet far off in dim memory it seems, With all its horror mingled happy dreams, Strange cries of glory rocked my sleeping head, And a glad people watched beside my bed. One day into mysterious darkness thrown, I saw the promise of my future close; I was a little child, left all alone, Alas! and I had foes.
"They cast me living in a dreary tomb, Never mine eyes saw sunlight pierce the gloom, Only ye, brother angels, used to sweep Down from your heaven, and visit me in sleep. 'Neath blood-red hands my young life withered there. Dear Lord, the bad are miserable all, Be not Thou deaf, like them, unto my prayer, It is for them I call."
The angels sang: "See heaven's high arch unfold, Come, we will crown thee with the stars above, Will give thee cherub-wings of blue and gold, And thou shalt learn our ministry of love, Shalt rock the cradle where some mother's tears Are dropping o'er her restless little one, Or, with thy luminous breath, in distant spheres, Shalt kindle some cold sun."
Ceased the full choir, all heaven was hushed to hear, Bowed the fair face, still wet with many a tear, In depths of space, the rolling worlds were stayed, Whilst the Eternal in the infinite said:
"O king, I kept thee far from human state, Who hadst a dungeon only for thy throne, O son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter fate, The slavery of kings thou hast not known, What if thy wasted arms are bleeding yet, And wounded with the fetter's cruel trace, No earthly diadem has ever set A stain upon thy face.
"Child, life and hope were with thee at thy birth, But life soon bowed thy tender form to earth, And hope forsook thee in thy hour of need. Come, for thy Saviour had His pains divine; Come, for His brow was crowned with thorns like thine, His sceptre was a reed."
_Dublin University Magazine._
THE FEAST OF FREEDOM.
_("Lorsqu'à l'antique Olympe immolant l'evangile.")_
[Bk. II. v., 1823.]
[There was in Rome one antique usage as follows: On the eve of the execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet--at the prison gate--known as the "Free Festival."--CHATEAUBRIAND'S "Martyrs."]
TO YE KINGS.
When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold An idolatrous cause, Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout Of "the People's" applause.
On the eve of that day of their evenings the last! At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast, Rich, unstinted, unpriced, That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled, With an ignorant pity the jailers would spread For the martyrs of Christ.
Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine Fill'd his cup to the brim! Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose, Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose, All united for him!
Every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse, In profusion procured was put forth to enhance The repast that they gave; And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight, Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night The elect of the grave.
And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain, Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain The bloodthirsty arena; Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds And who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs Shame the restless hyena.
They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve, In their turn on the morrow were destined to give To the lions their food; For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board, Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford, Death administering stood.
Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power, But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour-- 'Tis your knell that it rings! To the popular tiger a prey is decreed, And the maw of Republican hunger will feed On _a banquet of Kings!_
"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK MAHONY)
GENIUS.
(DEDICATED TO CHATEAUBRIAND.)
[Bk. IV. vi., July, 1822.]
Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth, Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind, Bears Genius--treasure of celestial birth, Within his solitary soul enshrined. Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure, Like the undying vultures', will be driven Into his noble heart, that must endure Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven, Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven.
Still though his destiny on earth may be Grief and injustice; who would not endure With joyful calm, each proffered agony; Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure? What mortal feeling kindled in his soul That clear celestial flame, so pure and high, O'er which nor time nor death can have control, Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly From sufferings whose reward is Immortality? No! though the clamors of the envious crowd Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise
From the dull clod, borne by an effort proud Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities. 'Tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread, Reposing o'er the tempest, from that height Sees the clouds reel and roll above our head, While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight, More upward soars sublime in heaven's eternal light.
MRS. TORRE HULME
THE GIRL OF OTAHEITE.
_("O! dis-moi, tu veux fuir?")_
[Bk. IV, vii., Jan. 31, 1821.]
Forget? Can I forget the scented breath Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear; The strange awaking from a dream of death, The sudden thrill to find thee coming near? Our huts were desolate, and far away I heard thee calling me throughout the day, No one had seen thee pass, Trembling I came. Alas! Can I forget?
Once I was beautiful; my maiden charms Died with the grief that from my bosom fell. Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms! Let there be no regrets and no farewell! Here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow, Here of thy fatherland we whispered low; Here, music, praise, and prayer Filled the glad summer air. Can I forget?
Forget? My dear old home must I forget? And wander forth and hear my people weep, Far from the woods where, when the sun has set, Fearless but weary to thy arms I creep; Far from lush flow'rets and the palm-tree's moan I could not live. Here let me rest alone! Go! I must follow nigh, With thee I'm doomed to die, Never forget!
CLEMENT SCOTT
NERO'S INCENDIARY SONG.
_("Amis! ennui nous tue.")_
[Bk. IV. xv., March, 1825.]
Aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred, Come to the novel feast I spread, thrice-consul, Nero, lord, The Caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony, Who plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy.
My joyful call should instantly bring all who love me most,-- For ne'er were seen such arch delights from Greek or Roman host; Nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite of cynic vaunts, Austere but lenient Seneca no "Ercles" bumper daunts;
Nor where upon the Tiber floats Aglae in galley gay, 'Neath Asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous array; Nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy prefect flings A score of slaves, their fetters wreathed, to feed grim, greedy things.
I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the whole town in a mass; Upon this tower we'll take our stand to watch the 'wildered pass; How paltry fights of men and beasts! here be my combatants,-- The Seven Hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead the dance.
This is more meet for him who rules to drive away his stress-- He, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wilderness-- But, haste! for night is darkling--soon, the festival it brings; Already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre wings,
And mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling breaths; They tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted deaths; And 'neath caresses scorching hot the palaces decay-- Oh, that I, too, could thus caress, and burn, and blight, and slay!
Hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes! Are those real men or ghosts? The stillness spreads of Death abroad--down come the temple posts, Their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with silver waves To leap with hiss of thousand snakes where Tiber writhes and raves.
All's lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues totter--crash! Spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust and ash. The victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north winds sound the horn To goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn.
Proud capital! farewell for e'er! these flames nought can subdue-- The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a bridge o'er hellish brew. 'Tis Nero's whim! how good to see Rome brought the lowest down; Yet, Queen of all the earth, give thanks for such a splendrous crown!
When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule to thee; That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent knee. Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this "immortal star" Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished--oh, how far!
How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark! The youth who fired Ephesus' fane falls low beneath my mark. The pangs of people--when I sport, what matters?--See them whirl About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl.
Take from my brow this poor rose-crown--the flames have made it pine; If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with Cretan wine! I like not overmuch that red--good taste says "gild a crime?" "To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs" is--thanks! a hint sublime!
I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she not offer prayers Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ?--to e'en a Jew, she dares! Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all; Alone I rest--except this pile, I leave no single hall.
Yet I destroy to build anew, and Rome shall fairer shine-- But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not divine. The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete-- And, slaves, bring in fresh roses--what odor is more sweet?
H.L. WILLIAMS
REGRET.
_("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passé.")_
[Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.]
Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind! Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined, Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find Ourselves alone again.
Then, through the distant future's boundless space, We seek the lost companion of our days: "Return, return!" we cry, and lo, apace Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place Of that we mourn always.
I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now, Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "Begone! Respect the cypress on my mournful brow, Lost Happiness hath left regret--but _thou_ Leavest remorse, alone."
Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire, O friends, that in your revelry appears! With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire, And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre When it is wet with tears.
Each in his secret heart perchance doth own Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed;-- Sufferers alike together and alone Are we; with many a grief to others known, How many unrevealed!
Alas! for natural tears and simple pains, For tender recollections, cherished long, For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains, We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains Only for sport and song!
Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace: In vain I strove their parting to delay; Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space, Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face Lightens, and fades away.
_Fraser's Magazine_
THE MORNING OF LIFE.
_("Le voile du matin.")_
[Bk. V. viii., April, 1822.]
The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks, Old towers gleam white in the ray, And already the glory so joyously seeks The lark that's saluting the day.
Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair, Though, were you swept hence in the night, From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare At the sun rising newly as bright.
But out of earth's trammels your soul would have flown Where glitters Eternity's stream, And you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown, As sunshine disperses a dream.
BELOVED NAME.
_("Le parfum d'un lis.")_
[Bk. V. xiii.]
The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light, The latest murmur of departing day, Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight, The mystic farewell of each hour at flight, The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay,--
The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun; The thrilling accent of a voice we know, The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow, An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run,--