Chapter 3
The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh, Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame,-- The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die,-- The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie, Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME!
Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine, Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound; Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine, The sacred word which at some hidden shrine, The selfsame voice forever makes resound!
O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame, My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide, With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim, Shall dare to blend the _one_, the purer name, Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,--
Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing, Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear; To solemn harmonies attuned the string, As, music show'ring from his viewless wing, On heavenly airs some angel hovered near.
CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY)
THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD.
_("Oui, ce front, ce sourire.")_
[Bk. V. xxii., November, 1825.]
That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair, Beseem my child, who weeps and plays: A heavenly spirit guards her ways, From whom she stole that mixture rare. Through all her features shining mild, The poet sees an angel there, The father sees a child.
And by their flame so pure and bright, We see how lately those sweet eyes Have wandered down from Paradise, And still are lingering in its light.
All earthly things are but a shade Through which she looks at things above, And sees the holy Mother-maid, Athwart her mother's glance of love.
She seems celestial songs to hear, And virgin souls are whispering near. Till by her radiant smile deceived, I say, "Young angel, lately given, When was thy martyrdom achieved? And what name lost thou bear in heaven?"
_Dublin University Magazine_.
BALLADES.--1823-28.
THE GRANDMOTHER
_("Dors-tu? mère de notre mère.")_
[III., 1823.]
"To die--to sleep."--SHAKESPEARE.
Still asleep! We have been since the noon thus alone. Oh, the hours we have ceased to number! Wake, grandmother!--speechless say why thou art grown. Then, thy lips are so cold!--the Madonna of stone Is like thee in thy holy slumber. We have watched thee in sleep, we have watched thee at prayer, But what can now betide thee? Like thy hours of repose all thy orisons were, And thy lips would still murmur a blessing whene'er Thy children stood beside thee.
Now thine eye is unclosed, and thy forehead is bent O'er the hearth, where ashes smoulder; And behold, the watch-lamp will be speedily spent. Art thou vexed? have we done aught amiss? Oh, relent! But--parent, thy hands grow colder! Say, with ours wilt thou let us rekindle in thine The glow that has departed? Wilt thou sing us some song of the days of lang syne? Wilt thou tell us some tale, from those volumes divine, Of the brave and noble-hearted?
Of the dragon who, crouching in forest green glen, Lies in wait for the unwary-- Of the maid who was freed by her knight from the den Of the ogre, whose club was uplifted, but then Turned aside by the wand of a fairy? Wilt thou teach us spell-words that protect from all harm, And thoughts of evil banish? What goblins the sign of the cross may disarm? What saint it is good to invoke? and what charm Can make the demon vanish?
Or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book, So feared by hell and Satan; At its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look, At the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook, And the hymns and the prayers in Latin. Oft with legends of angels, who watch o'er the young, Thy voice was wont to gladden; Have thy lips yet no language--no wisdom thy tongue? Oh, see! the light wavers, and sinking, bath flung On the wall forms that sadden.
Wake! awake! evil spirits perhaps may presume To haunt thy holy dwelling; Pale ghosts are, perhaps, stealing into the room-- Oh, would that the lamp were relit! with the gloom These fearful thoughts dispelling. Thou hast told us our parents lie sleeping beneath The grass, in a churchyard lonely: Now, thine eyes have no motion, thy mouth has no breath, And thy limbs are all rigid! Oh, say, _Is this death_, Or thy prayer or thy slumber only?
ENVOY.
Sad vigil they kept by that grandmother's chair, Kind angels hovered o'er them-- And the dead-bell was tolled in the hamlet--and there, On the following eve, knelt that innocent pair, With the missal-book before them.
"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY).
THE GIANT IN GLEE.
_("Ho, guerriers! je suis né dans le pays des Gaules.")_
[V., March 11, 1825.]
Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls; O'er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like balls Of the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathed Ere in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed.
Then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow,-- A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow. He is weak, very old--he can scarcely uptear A young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear;
But here's to replace him!--I can toy with his axe; As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax, And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees. How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze!
I was still but a springald when, cleaving the Alps, I brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps, And my head, o'er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds, Where I captured the eagles and caged them by crowds.
There were tempests! I blew them back into their source! And put out their lightnings! More than once in a course, Through the ocean I went wading after the whale, And stirred up the bottom as did never a gale.
Fond of rambling, I hunted the shark 'long the beach, And no osprey in ether soared out of my reach; And the bear that I pinched 'twixt my finger and thumb, Like the lynx and the wolf, perished harmless and dumb.
But these pleasures of childhood have lost all their zest; It is warfare and carnage that now I love best: The sounds that I wish to awaken and hear Are the cheers raised by courage, the shrieks due to fear;
When the riot of flames, ruin, smoke, steel and blood, Announces an army rolls along as a flood, Which I follow, to harry the clamorous ranks, Sharp-goading the laggards and pressing the flanks, Till, a thresher 'mid ripest of corn, up I stand With an oak for a flail in my unflagging hand.
Rise the groans! rise the screams! on my feet fall vain tears As the roar of my laughter redoubles their fears. I am naked. At armor of steel I should joke-- True, I'm helmed--a brass pot you could draw with ten yoke.
I look for no ladder to invade the king's hall-- I stride o'er the ramparts, and down the walls fall, Till choked are the ditches with the stones, dead and quick, Whilst the flagstaff I use 'midst my teeth as a pick.
Oh, when cometh my turn to succumb like my prey, May brave men my body snatch away from th' array Of the crows--may they heap on the rocks till they loom Like a mountain, befitting a colossus' tomb!
_Foreign Quarterly Review (adapted)_
THE CYMBALEER'S BRIDE.
_("Monseigneur le Duc de Bretagne.")_
[VI., October, 1825.]
My lord the Duke of Brittany Has summoned his barons bold-- Their names make a fearful litany! Among them you will not meet any But men of giant mould.
Proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep, And steel-clad knight and peer, Whose forts are girt with a moat cut deep-- But none excel in soldiership My own loved cymbaleer.
Clashing his cymbals, forth he went, With a bold and gallant bearing; Sure for a captain he was meant, To judge his pride with courage blent, And the cloth of gold he's wearing.
But in my soul since then I feel A fear in secret creeping; And to my patron saint I kneel, That she may recommend his weal To his guardian-angel's keeping.
I've begged our abbot Bernardine His prayers not to relax; And to procure him aid divine I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine Three pounds of virgin wax.
Our Lady of Loretto knows The pilgrimage I've vowed: "To wear the scallop I propose, If health and safety from the foes My lover be allowed."
No letter (fond affection's gage!) From him could I require, The pain of absence to assuage-- A vassal-maid can have no page, A liegeman has no squire.
This day will witness, with the duke's, My cymbaleer's return: Gladness and pride beam in my looks, Delay my heart impatient brooks, All meaner thoughts I spurn.
Back from the battlefield elate His banner brings each peer; Come, let us see, at the ancient gate, The martial triumph pass in state-- With the princes my cymbaleer.
We'll have from the rampart walls a glance Of the air his steed assumes; His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance, And on his head unceasing dance, In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes!
Be quick, my sisters! dress in haste! Come, see him bear the bell, With laurels decked, with true love graced, While in his bold hands, fitly placed, The bounding cymbals swell!
Mark well the mantle that he'll wear, Embroidered by his bride! Admire his burnished helmet's glare, O'ershadowed by the dark horsehair That waves in jet folds wide!
The gypsy (spiteful wench!) foretold, With a voice like a viper hissing. (Though I had crossed her palm with gold), That from the ranks a spirit bold Would be to-day found missing.
But I have prayed so much, I trust Her words may prove untrue; Though in a tomb the hag accurst Muttered: "Prepare thee for the worst!" Whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue.
My joy her spells shall not prevent. Hark! I can hear the drums! And ladies fair from silken tent Peep forth, and every eye is bent On the cavalcade that comes!
Pikemen, dividing on both flanks, Open the pageantry; Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks, And silk-robed barons lead the ranks-- The pink of gallantry!
In scarfs of gold the priests admire; The heralds on white steeds; Armorial pride decks their attire, Worn in remembrance of some sire Famed for heroic deeds.
Feared by the Paynim's dark divan, The Templars next advance; Then the tall halberds of Lausanne, Foremost to stand in battle van Against the foes of France.
Now hail the duke, with radiant brow, Girt with his cavaliers; Round his triumphant banner bow Those of his foe. Look, sisters, now! Here come the cymbaleers!
She spoke--with searching eye surveyed Their ranks--then, pale, aghast, Sunk in the crowd! Death came in aid-- 'Twas mercy to that loving maid-- _The cymbaleers had passed!_
"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY)
BATTLE OF THE NORSEMEN AND THE GAELS.
_("Accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!")_
[VII., September, 1825.]
Ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey! Ye wolves of war, make no delay! For foemen 'neath our blades shall fall Ere night may veil with purple pall. The evening psalms are nearly o'er, And priests who follow in our train Have promised us the final gain, And filled with faith our valiant corps.
Let orphans weep, and widows brood! To-morrow we shall wash the blood Off saw-gapped sword and lances bent, So, close the ranks and fire the tent! And chill yon coward cavalcade With brazen bugles blaring loud, E'en though our chargers' neighing proud Already has the host dismayed.
Spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds! On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds! Through helmet plumes the arrows flit, And plated breasts the pikeheads split. The double-axe fells human oaks, And like the thistles in the field See bristling up (where none must yield!) The points hewn off by sweeping strokes!
We, heroes all, our wounds disdain; Dismounted now, our horses slain, Yet we advance--more courage show, Though stricken, seek to overthrow The victor-knights who tread in mud The writhing slaves who bite the heel, While on caparisons of steel The maces thunder--cudgels thud!
Should daggers fail hide-coats to shred, Seize each your man and hug him dead! Who falls unslain will only make A mouthful to the wolves who slake Their month-whet thirst. No captives, none! We die or win! but should we die, The lopped-off hand will wave on high The broken brand to hail the sun!
MADELAINE.
_("Ecoute-moi, Madeline.")_
[IX., September, 1825.]
List to me, O Madelaine! Now the snows have left the plain, Which they warmly cloaked. Come into the forest groves, Where the notes that Echo loves Are from horns evoked.
Come! where Springtide, Madelaine, Brings a sultry breath from Spain, Giving buds their hue; And, last night, to glad your eye, Laid the floral marquetry, Red and gold and blue.
Would I were, O Madelaine, As the lamb whose wool you train Through your tender hands. Would I were the bird that whirls Round, and comes to peck your curls, Happy in such bands.
Were I e'en, O Madelaine, Hermit whom the herd disdain In his pious cell, When your purest lips unfold Sins which might to all be told, As to him you tell.
Would I were, O Madelaine, Moth that murmurs 'gainst your pane, Peering at your rest, As, so like its woolly wing, Ceasing scarce its fluttering, Heaves and sinks your breast.
If you seek it, Madelaine, You may wish, and not in vain, For a serving host, And your splendid hall of state Shall be envied by the great, O'er the Jew-King's boast.
If you name it, Madelaine, Round your head no more you'll train Simple marguerites, No! the coronet of peers, Whom the queen herself oft fears, And the monarch greets.
If you wish, O Madelaine! Where you gaze you long shall reign-- For I'm ruler here! I'm the lord who asks your hand If you do not bid me stand Loving shepherd here!
THE FAY AND THE PERI.
_("Où vas-tu donc, jeune âme.")_
[XV.]
THE PERI.
Beautiful spirit, come with me Over the blue enchanted sea: Morn and evening thou canst play In my garden, where the breeze Warbles through the fruity trees; No shadow falls upon the day: There thy mother's arms await Her cherished infant at the gate. Of Peris I the loveliest far-- My sisters, near the morning star, In ever youthful bloom abide; But pale their lustre by my side-- A silken turban wreathes my head, Rubies on my arms are spread, While sailing slowly through the sky, By the uplooker's dazzled eye Are seen my wings of purple hue, Glittering with Elysian dew. Whiter than a far-off sail My form of beauty glows, Fair as on a summer night Dawns the sleep star's gentle light; And fragrant as the early rose That scents the green Arabian vale, Soothing the pilgrim as he goes.
THE FAY.
Beautiful infant (said the Fay), In the region of the sun I dwell, where in a rich array The clouds encircle the king of day, His radiant journey done. My wings, pure golden, of radiant sheen (Painted as amorous poet's strain), Glimmer at night, when meadows green Sparkle with the perfumed rain While the sun's gone to come again. And clear my hand, as stream that flows; And sweet my breath as air of May; And o'er my ivory shoulders stray Locks of sunshine;--tunes still play From my odorous lips of rose.
Follow, follow! I have caves Of pearl beneath the azure waves, And tents all woven pleasantly In verdant glades of Faëry. Come, belovèd child, with me, And I will bear thee to the bowers Where clouds are painted o'er like flowers, And pour into thy charmed ear Songs a mortal may not hear; Harmonies so sweet and ripe As no inspired shepherd's pipe E'er breathed into Arcadian glen, Far from the busy haunts of men.
THE PERI.
My home is afar in the bright Orient, Where the sun, like a king, in his orange tent, Reigneth for ever in gorgeous pride-- And wafting thee, princess of rich countree, To the soft flute's lush melody, My golden vessel will gently glide, Kindling the water 'long the side.
Vast cities are mine of power and delight, Lahore laid in lilies, Golconda, Cashmere; And Ispahan, dear to the pilgrim's sight, And Bagdad, whose towers to heaven uprear; Alep, that pours on the startled ear, From its restless masts the gathering roar, As of ocean hamm'ring at night on the shore.
Mysore is a queen on her stately throne, Thy white domes, Medina, gleam on the eye,-- Thy radiant kiosques with their arrowy spires, Shooting afar their golden fires Into the flashing sky,-- Like a forest of spears that startle the gaze Of the enemy with the vivid blaze.
Come there, beautiful child, with me, Come to the arcades of Araby, To the land of the date and the purple vine, Where pleasure her rosy wreaths doth twine, And gladness shall be alway thine; Singing at sunset next thy bed, Strewing flowers under thy head. Beneath a verdant roof of leaves, Arching a flow'ry carpet o'er, Thou mayst list to lutes on summer eves Their lays of rustic freshness pour, While upon the grassy floor Light footsteps, in the hour of calm, Ruffle the shadow of the palm.
THE FAY.
Come to the radiant homes of the blest, Where meadows like fountain in light are drest, And the grottoes of verdure never decay, And the glow of the August dies not away. Come where the autumn winds never can sweep, And the streams of the woodland steep thee in sleep, Like a fond sister charming the eyes of a brother, Or a little lass lulled on the breast of her mother. Beautiful! beautiful! hasten to me! Colored with crimson thy wings shall be; Flowers that fade not thy forehead shall twine, Over thee sunlight that sets not shall shine.
The infant listened to the strain, Now here, now there, its thoughts were driven-- But the Fay and the Peri waited in vain, The soul soared above such a sensual gain-- The child rose to Heaven.
_Asiatic Journal_
LES ORIENTALES.--1829.
THE SCOURGE OF HEAVEN.
_("Là, voyez-vous passer, la nuée.")_
[I., November, 1828.]
I.
Hast seen it pass, that cloud of darkest rim? Now red and glorious, and now gray and dim, Now sad as summer, barren in its heat? One seems to see at once rush through the night The smoke and turmoil from a burning site Of some great town in fiery grasp complete.
Whence comes it? From the sea, the hills, the sky? Is it the flaming chariot from on high Which demons to some planet seem to bring? Oh, horror! from its wondrous centre, lo! A furious stream of lightning seems to flow Like a long snake uncoiling its fell ring.
II.
The sea! naught but the sea! waves on all sides! Vainly the sea-bird would outstrip these tides! Naught but an endless ebb and flow! Wave upon wave advancing, then controlled Beneath the depths a stream the eyes behold Rolling in the involved abyss below!
Whilst here and there great fishes in the spray Their silvery fins beneath the sun display, Or their blue tails lash up from out the surge, Like to a flock the sea its fleece doth fling; The horizon's edge bound by a brazen ring; Waters and sky in mutual azure merge.
"Am I to dry these seas?" exclaimed the cloud. "No!" It went onward 'neath the breath of God.
III.
Green hills, which round a limpid bay Reflected, bask in the clear wave! The javelin and its buffalo prey, The laughter and the joyous stave! The tent, the manger! these describe A hunting and a fishing tribe Free as the air--their arrows fly Swifter than lightning through the sky! By them is breathed the purest air, Where'er their wanderings may chance! Children and maidens young and fair, And warriors circling in the dance! Upon the beach, around the fire, Now quenched by wind, now burning higher, Like spirits which our dreams inspire To hover o'er our trance.
Virgins, with skins of ebony, Beauteous as evening skies, Laughed as their forms they dimly see In metal mirrors rise; Others, as joyously as they, Were drawing for their food by day, With jet-black hands, white camels' whey, Camels with docile eyes.
Both men and women, bare, Plunged in the briny bay. Who knows them? Whence they were? Where passed they yesterday? Shrill sounds were hovering o'er, Mixed with the ocean's roar, Of cymbals from the shore, And whinnying courser's neigh.
"Is't there?" one moment asked the cloudy mass; "Is't there?" An unknown utterance answered: "Pass!"
IV.
Whitened with grain see Egypt's lengthened plains, Far as the eyesight farthest space contains, Like a rich carpet spread their varied hues. The cold sea north, southwards the burying sand Dispute o'er Egypt--while the smiling land Still mockingly their empire does refuse.
Three marble triangles seem to pierce the sky, And hide their basements from the curious eye. Mountains--with waves of ashes covered o'er! In graduated blocks of six feet square From golden base to top, from earth to air Their ever heightening monstrous steps they bore.
No scorching blast could daunt the sleepless ken Of roseate Sphinx, and god of marble green, Which stood as guardians o'er the sacred ground. For a great port steered vessels huge and fleet, A giant city bathed her marble feet In the bright waters round.
One heard the dread simoom in distance roar, Whilst the crushed shell upon the pebbly shore Crackled beneath the crocodile's huge coil. Westwards, like tiger's skin, each separate isle Spotted the surface of the yellow Nile; Gray obelisks shot upwards from the soil.
The star-king set. The sea, it seemed to hold In the calm mirror this live globe of gold, This world, the soul and torchbearer of our own. In the red sky, and in the purple streak, Like friendly kings who would each other seek, Two meeting suns were shown.