Chapter 8

Not in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see Only in savage wood And sunny vale, the present Deity; Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty!--here, amidst the crowd, Through the great city rolled, With everlasting murmur deep and loud-- Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.

Thy golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes; For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy Spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; And this eternal sound-- Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng-- Like the resounding sea, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.

And when the hours of rest Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Hushing its billowy breast-- The quiet of that moment too is thine, It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

THE PRAIRIES.°

These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name-- The Prairies. I behold them for the first, And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch In airy undulations, far away, As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, And motionless for ever.--Motionless?-- No--they are all unchained again. The clouds Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South! Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not--ye have played Among the palms of Mexico and vines Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks That from the fountains of Sonora glide Into the calm Pacific--have ye fanned A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? Man hath no part in all this glorious work: The hand that built the firmament hath heaved And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes With herbage, planted them with island groves, And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor For this magnificent temple of the sky-- With flowers whose glory and whose multitude Rival the constellations! The great heavens Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,-- A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, Than that which bends above the eastern hills.

As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides The hollow beating of his footstep seems A sacrilegious sound. I think of those Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here-- The dead of other days?--and did the dust Of these fair solitudes once stir with life And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds That overlook the rivers, or that rise In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, Answer. A race, that long has passed away, Built them;--a disciplined and populous race Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed, When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. All day this desert murmured with their toils, Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed In a forgotten language, and old tunes, From instruments of unremembered form, Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came-- The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce, And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. The solitude of centuries untold Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone-- All--save the piles of earth that hold their bones-- The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods-- The barriers which they builded from the soil To keep the foe at bay--till o'er the walls The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres, And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. Haply some solitary fugitive, Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense Of desolation and of fear became Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind words Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose A bride among their maidens, and at length Seemed to forget,--yet ne'er forgot,--the wife Of his first love, and her sweet little ones, Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race.

Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise Races of living things, glorious in strength, And perish, as the quickening breath of God Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too, Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought A wilder hunting-ground. The beaver builds No longer by these streams, but far away, On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back The white man's face--among Missouri's springs, And pools whose issues swell the Oregan, He rears his little Venice. In these plains The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake The earth with thundering steps--yet here I meet His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.

Still this great solitude is quick with life. Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, A more adventurous colonist than man, With whom he came across the eastern deep, Fills the savannas with his murmurings, And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, Within the hollow oak. I listen long To his domestic hum, and think I hear The sound of that advancing multitude Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, And I am in the wilderness alone.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.°

Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.

Wo to the English soldiery That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When waking to their tents on fire They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil: We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, For ever, from our shore.

THE ARCTIC LOVER.

Gone is the long, long winter night; Look, my beloved one! How glorious, through his depths of light, Rolls the majestic sun! The willows, waked from winter's death, Give out a fragrance like thy breath-- The summer is begun!

Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day: Hark, to that mighty crash! The loosened ice-ridge breaks away-- The smitten waters flash. Seaward the glittering mountain rides, While, down its green translucent sides, The foamy torrents dash.

See, love, my boat is moored for thee, By ocean's weedy floor-- The petrel does not skim the sea More swiftly than my oar. We'll go, where, on the rocky isles, Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles Beside the pebbly shore.

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, With wind-flowers frail and fair, While I, upon his isle of snows, Seek and defy the bear. Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, This arm his savage strength shall tame, And drag him from his lair.

When crimson sky and flamy cloud Bespeak the summer o'er, And the dead valleys wear a shroud Of snows that melt no more, I'll build of ice thy winter home, With glistening walls and glassy dome, And spread with skins the floor.

The white fox by thy couch shall play; And, from the frozen skies, The meteors of a mimic day Shall flash upon thine eyes. And I--for such thy vow--meanwhile Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile, Till that long midnight flies.

THE JOURNEY OF LIFE.

Beneath the waning moon I walk at night, And muse on human life--for all around Are dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight, And pitfalls lurk in shade along the ground, And broken gleams of brightness, here and there, Glance through, and leave unwarmed the death-like air.

The trampled earth returns a sound of fear-- A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs! And lights, that tell of cheerful homes, appear Far off, and die like hope amid the glooms. A mournful wind across the landscape flies, And the wide atmosphere is full of sighs.

And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on, Watching the stars that roll the hours away, Till the faint light that guides me now is gone, And, like another life, the glorious day Shall open o'er me from the empyreal height, With warmth, and certainty, and boundless light.

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TRANSLATIONS.

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TRANSLATIONS.

VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES.

The night winds howled--the billows dashed Against the tossing chest; And Danaë to her broken heart Her slumbering infant pressed.

"My little child"--in tears she said-- "To wake and weep is mine, But thou canst sleep--thou dost not know Thy mother's lot, and thine.

"The moon is up, the moonbeams smile-- They tremble on the main; But dark, within my floating cell, To me they smile in vain.

"Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm, Thy clustering locks are dry, Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust, Nor breakers booming high.

"As o'er thy sweet unconscious face A mournful watch I keep, I think, didst thou but know thy fate, How thou wouldst also weep.

"Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds That vex the restless brine-- When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed As peacefully as thine!"

FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS.

'Tis sweet, in the green Spring, To gaze upon the wakening fields around; Birds in the thicket sing, Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground; A thousand odours rise, Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes.

Shadowy, and close, and cool, The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook; For ever fresh and full, Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook; And the soft herbage seems Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams.

Thou, who alone art fair, And whom alone I love, art far away. Unless thy smile be there, It makes me sad to see the earth so gay; I care not if the train Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again.

MARY MAGDALEN.°

FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA.

Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted! The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, In wonder and in scorn! Thou weepest days of innocence departed; Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move The Lord to pity and love.

The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, Even for the least of all the tears that shine On that pale cheek of thine. Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven, Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise Holy, and pure, and wise.

It is not much that to the fragrant blossom The ragged brier should change; the bitter fir Distil Arabian myrrh! Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain Bear home the abundant grain.

But come and see the bleak and barren mountains Thick to their tops with roses: come and see Leaves on the dry dead tree: The perished plant, set out by living fountains, Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, For ever, towards the skies.

THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON.

Region of life and light! Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er! Nor frost nor heat may blight Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore!

There without crook or sling, Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red Round his meek temples cling; And to sweet pastures led, His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed.

He guides, and near him they Follow delighted, for he makes them go Where dwells eternal May, And heavenly roses blow, Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, And fountains of delight; And where his feet have stood Springs up, along the way, their tender food.

And when, in the mid skies, The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, Reposing as he lies, With all his flock around, He witches the still air with numerous sound.

From his sweet lute flow forth Immortal harmonies, of power to still All passions born of earth, And draw the ardent will Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.

Might but a little part, A wandering breath of that high melody, Descend into my heart, And change it till it be Transformed and swallowed up, oh love! in thee.

Ah! then my soul should know, Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day, And from this place of woe Released, should take its way To mingle with thy flock and never stray.

FATIMA AND RADUAN.°

FROM THE SPANISH.

Diamante falso y fingido, Engastado en pedernal, &c.

"False diamond set in flint! the caverns of the mine Are warmer than the breast that holds that faithless heart of thine; Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind, And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind. If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would be To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me. Oh! I could chide thee sharply--but every maiden knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

"Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Grenada's maids, Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades; And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every one That what thou didst to win my love, from love of me was done. Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know, They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go; But thou giv'st me little heed--for I speak to one who knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.

"It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care. Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah! thou know'st I feel That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel. 'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain; But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again. I would proclaim thee as thou art--but every maiden knows That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."

Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran: The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was, He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause. "Oh, lady, dry those star-like eyes--their dimness does me wrong; If my heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image long; Thou hast uttered cruel words--but I grieve the less for those, Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."

LOVE AND FOLLY.°

FROM LA FONTAINE.

Love's worshippers alone can know The thousand mysteries that are his; His blazing torch, his twanging bow, His blooming age are mysteries. A charming science--but the day Were all too short to con it o'er; So take of me this little lay, A sample of its boundless lore.

As once, beneath the fragrant shade Of myrtles breathing heaven's own air, The children, Love and Folly, played-- A quarrel rose betwixt the pair. Love said the gods should do him right-- But Folly vowed to do it then, And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight, So hard he never saw again.

His lovely mother's grief was deep, She called for vengeance on the deed; A beauty does not vainly weep, Nor coldly does a mother plead. A shade came o'er the eternal bliss That fills the dwellers of the skies; Even stony-hearted Nemesis, And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes.

"Behold," she said, "this lovely boy," While streamed afresh her graceful tears, "Immortal, yet shut out from joy And sunshine, all his future years. The child can never take, you see, A single step without a staff-- The harshest punishment would be Too lenient for the crime by half."

All said that Love had suffered wrong, And well that wrong should be repaid; Then weighed the public interest long, And long the party's interest weighed. And thus decreed the court above-- "Since Love is blind from Folly's blow, Let Folly be the guide of Love, Where'er the boy may choose to go."

THE SIESTA.

FROM THE SPANISH.

Vientecico murmurador, Que lo gozas y andas todo, &c.

Airs, that wander and murmur round, Bearing delight where'er ye blow! Make in the elms a lulling sound, While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er. Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breast The pain she has waked may slumber no more. Breathing soft from the blue profound, Bearing delight where'er ye blow, Make in the elms a lulling sound, While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

Airs! that over the bending boughs, And under the shade of pendent leaves, Murmur soft, like my timid vows Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves,-- Gently sweeping the grassy ground, Bearing delight where'er ye blow, Make in the elms a lulling sound, While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA.°

FROM THE SPANISH.

To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde, The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade. The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound, With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound. He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vein, And towards his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein; Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third, From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard. "Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor, "Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door. Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood, That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood! Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight, But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight. Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree. Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife. Say not my voice is magic--thy pleasure is to hear The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear. Well, follow thou thy choice--to the battle-field away, To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they. Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand, And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand. Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead, On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed. Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks, From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguënza's rocks. Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long, And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong. These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own, Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone." She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek, Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR.°

FROM THE SPANISH.

'Tis not with gilded sabres That gleam in baldricks blue, Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez, Of gay and gaudy hue-- But, habited in mourning weeds, Come marching from afar, By four and four, the valiant men Who fought with Aliatar. All mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

The banner of the Phenix, The flag that loved the sky, That scarce the wind dared wanton with, It flew so proud and high-- Now leaves its place in battle-field, And sweeps the ground in grief, The bearer drags its glorious folds Behind the fallen chief, As mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

Brave Aliatar led forward A hundred Moors to go To where his brother held Motril Against the leaguering foe. On horseback went the gallant Moor, That gallant band to lead; And now his bier is at the gate, From whence he pricked his steed. While mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

The knights of the Grand Master In crowded ambush lay; They rushed upon him where the reeds Were thick beside the way; They smote the valiant Aliatar, They smote the warrior dead, And broken, but not beaten, were The gallant ranks he led. Now mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow, How passionate her cries! Her lover's wounds streamed not more free Than that poor maiden's eyes. Say, Love--for didst thou see her tears: Oh, no! he drew more tight The blinding fillet o'er his lids To spare his eyes the sight. While mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

Nor Zayda weeps him only, But all that dwell between The great Alhambra's palace walls And springs of Albaicin. The ladies weep the flower of knights, The brave the bravest here; The people weep a champion, The Alcaydes a noble peer. While mournfully and slowly The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY.°

FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR.