Chapter 32

Then fancy her magical pinions spread wide, And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise-- Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport he raises the latch, And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear, And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast; Joy quickens his pulse--all hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest-- "O God, thou hast blest me--I ask for no more."

Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear? 'T is the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky! 'T is the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere!

He springs from his hammock--he flies to the deck; Amazement confronts him with images dire-- Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck-- The masts fly in splinters--the shrouds are on fire!

O! sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss-- Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss!

O! sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge.

On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid; Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye-- O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul! Dimond.

CCXXXII.

ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES.

Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are! From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk from the first touch of Liberty's war, Be sucked out by tyrants or stagnate in chains!

On--on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, Ye locusts of tyranny!--blasting them o'er: Fill--fill up their wide, sunny waters, ye sails, From each slave-mart in Europe, and poison their shore.

May their fate be a mockword--may men of all lands Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands, Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls!

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be, To think--as the damned haply think of the heaven They had once in their reach,--that they might have been free.

Shame! shame! when there was not a bosom whose heat Ever rose o'er the zero of Castlereagh's heart, That did not, like Echo, your war-hymn repeat, And send back its prayers with your Liberty's start!

Good God! that in such a proud moment of life, Worth ages of history--when, had you but hurled One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world!

That then--O, disgrace upon manhood! e'en then You should falter--should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer a slave's life to a glorious death!

It is strange!--it is dreadful! Shout, Tyranny, shout Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er"-- If there lingers one spark of her fire, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss, Far nobler to live the brute-bondman of thee, Than sully even chains by a struggle like this. T. Moore.

CCXXXIII.

THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE BERLIN LANDSTURM.

Father of earth and heaven! I call thy name! Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll; Mine eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame; Father, sustain an untried soldier's soul. Or life, or death, whatever be the goal That crowns or closes round this struggling hour, Thou knowest, if ever from my spirit stole One deeper prayer, 't was that no cloud might lower On my young fame!--O hear! God of eternal power! Now for the fight--now for the cannon-peal-- Forward--through blood, and toils and cloud, and fire! Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel, The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire; They shake--like broken waves their squares retire,-- On, hussars!--Now give them rein and heel; Think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire;-- Earth cries for blood--in thunder on them wheel! This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph-seal! Körner.

CCXXXIV.

THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE.

Old Ironsides at anchor lay In the harbor of Mahon; A dead calm rested on take bay,-- The waves to sleep had gone; When little Hal, the Captain's son, A lad both brave and good, In sport, up shroud and rigging ran, And on the main truck stood!

A shudder shot through every vein,-- All eyes were turned on high! There stood the bop with dizzy brain, Between the sea and sky; No hold had he above, below; Alone he stood in air: To that far height none dared to go;-- No aid could reach him there.

We gazed,--but not a man could speak! With horror all aghast, In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, We watched the quivering mast. The atmosphere grew thick and hot, And of a lurid hue;-- As riveted unto the spot, Stood officers and crew.

The father came on deck:--he gasped, "Oh God! Thy will be done!" Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his son: "Jump, far out, boy into the wave! Jump, or I fire!" he said; "That only chance your life can save! Jump, jump, boy!" He obeyed.

He sunk, he rose, he lived,--he moved,-- And for the ship struck out. On board, we hailed the lad beloved, With many a manly shout. His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck-- Then folded to his heart his boy, And fainted on the deck. G. P. Morris.

CCXXXV.

CATILINE ON HIS BANISHMENT FROM ROME.

Banished from Rome! What's banished, but set free, From daily contact of the things I loathe? "Tried and convicted traitor!"--Who says this? Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head? Banished?--I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain! I held some slack allegiance till this hour; But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords; I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, I have within my heart's hot cells shut up, To leave you in your lazy dignities. But here I stand and scoff you: here I fling Hatred and full defiance in your face. Your consul's merciful. For this all thanks. He dares not touch a hair of Catiline. "Traitor!" I go but I return. This trial!-- Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs, To stir a fever in the blood of age, Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel. This day's the birth of sorrows!--This hour's work Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths, my lords; For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods, Shapes hot from Tartarus!--all shapes and crimes; Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn; Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup; Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe, Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones; Till anarchy comes down on you like Night, And massacre seals Rome's eternal grave! G. Croly.

CCXXXVI.

APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be or have been before, To mingle with the Universe and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean--roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin--his control Stops with the shore!--upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth:--there let him lay.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into the yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-- Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy watery wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:--not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-- Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow-- Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests: in all time, Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime-- The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. Lord Byron.

CCXXXVII.

BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night; And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;-- But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No: 't was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-- But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and crumblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which never might be repeated. Who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar-- And near, the beat of the alarming drum, Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;-- While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips--"The foe! they come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard--and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-- How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years: And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,-- Over the unreasoning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow, In its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life; Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife; The morn, the marshalling in arms; the day, Battle's magnificently-stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover,--heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent! Lord Byron.

CCXXXVIII.

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 strewn.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; 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 uplifted, the trumpet unknown.

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! Lord Byron.

CCXXXIX.

SPEECH OF MOLOCH.

My sentence is for open war. Of wiles, More inexpert, I boast not; them let those Contrive who need, or when they need, not now; For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The signal to ascend, sit lingering here, Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place Accept this dark, opprobrious den of shame, The prison of his tyranny, who reigns By our delay? No; let us rather choose, Armed with hell-flames and fury, all at once, O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way, Turning our tortures into horrid arms Against the torturer; when, to meet the noise Of his almighty engine, he shall hear Infernal thunder, and for lightning, see Black fire and horror shot with equal rage Among his angels,--and his throne itself, Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire, His own invented torments. But, perhaps, The way seems difficult and steep to scale, With upright wing, against a higher foe. Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, That in our proper motion we ascend Up to our native seat; descent and fall To us adverse. Who but felt of late, When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, With what compulsion and laborious flight, We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then; The event is feared. Should we again provoke Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find To our destruction; if there be in hell, Fear to be worse destroyed. What can be worse Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned In this abhorred deep to utter woe; Where pain of unextinguishable fire Must exercise us without hope of end, The vassals of his anger, when the scourge Inexorable, and the torturing hour Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus We should be quite abolished and expire. What fear we then? what doubt we to incense His utmost ire? which to the height enraged, Will either quite consume us, and reduce To nothing this essential (happier far, Than miserable, to have eternal being,) Or, if our substance be indeed divine, And cannot cease to be, we are at worst On this side nothing; and by proof we feel Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven, And with perpetual inroads to alarm, Though inaccessible, his fatal throne; Which, if not victory--is yet Revenge. Milton.

CCXL.

ANTONY'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears: I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interréd with their bones: So let it be with Cæsar, The noble Brutus Hath told you, Cæsar, was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Cæsar, answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, (For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men), Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Cæsar, seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Cæsar, hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause: What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason! Bear with me: My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar, And I must pause till it come back to me.