Chapter 7

Here are old trees, tail oaks and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds, And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades-- Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old-- My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, Back to the earliest days of liberty.

Oh FREEDOM! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailèd hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward: terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

Thy birthright was not given by human hands: Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, And teach the reed to utter simple airs. Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, His only foes; and thou with him didst draw The earliest furrows on the mountain side, Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, Thy enemy, although of reverend look, Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, Is later born than thou; and as he meets The grave defiance of thine elder eye, The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, But he shall fade into a feebler age; Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap His withered hands, and from their ambush call His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, Twine around thee threads of steel, light thread on thread, That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet May'st thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, And thou must watch and combat till the day Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, These old and friendly solitudes invite Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees Were young upon the unviolated earth, And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

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HALLOWED GROUND.

What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee?

That's hallowed ground where, mourned and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed;-- But where's their memory's mansion? Is't Yon churchyard's bowers? No! in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours.

A kiss can consecrate the ground Where mated hearts are mutual bound: The spot where love's first links were wound, That ne'er are riven, Is hallowed down to earth's profound, And up to heaven!

For time makes all but true love old; The burning thoughts that then were told Run molten still in memory's mould; And will not cool Until the heart itself be cold In Lethe's pool.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap! In dews that heavens far distant weep Their turf may bloom; Or Genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served mankind,-- And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high?-- To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies in heaven's sight The sword he draws:-- What can alone ennoble fight? A noble cause!

Give that,--and welcome War to brace Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space! The colors planted face to face, The charging cheer, Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, Shall still be dear.

And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven!--but Heaven rebukes my zeal! The cause of Truth and human weal, O God above! Transfer it from the sword's appeal To Peace and Love.

Peace, Love! the cherubim, that join Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, Where they are not,-- The heart alone can make divine Religion's spot.

To incantations dost thou trust, And pompous rites in domes august? See mouldering stones and metal's rust Belie the vaunt, That man can bless one pile of dust With chime or chant.

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man! Thy temples,--creeds themselves grow wan! But there's a dome of nobler span, A temple given Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban,-- Its space is heaven!

Its roof, star-pictured Nature's ceiling, Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, And God himself to man revealing, The harmonious spheres Make music, though unheard their pealing By mortal ears.

Fair stars! are not your beings pure? Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure? Else why so swell the thoughts at your Aspect above? Ye must be heavens that make us sure Of heavenly love!

And in your harmony sublime I read the doom of distant time; That man's regenerate soul from crime Shall yet be drawn, And reason on his mortal clime Immortal dawn.

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!-- Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth Earth's compass round; And your high-priesthood shall make earth _All hallowed ground_.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

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THE WOLF AND THE DOG.

A prowling wolf, whose shaggy skin (So strict the watch of dogs had been) Hid little but his bones, Once met a mastiff dog astray. A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray No human mortal owns. Sir Wolf, in famished plight, Would fain have made a ration Upon his fat relation: But then he first must fight; And well the dog seemed able To save from wolfish table His carcass snug and tight. So then in civil conversation The wolf expressed his admiration Of Tray's fine case. Said Tray politely, "Yourself, good sir, may be as sightly; Quit but the woods, advised by me: For all your fellows here, I see, Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt, Belike to die of haggard want. With such a pack, of course it follows, One fights for every bit he swallows. Come then with me, and share On equal terms our princely fare." "But what with you Has one to do?" Inquires the wolf. "Light work indeed," Replies the dog: "you only need To bark a little now and then, To chase off duns and beggar-men, To fawn on friends that come or go forth, Your master please, and so forth; For which you have to eat All sorts of well-cooked meat-- Cold pullets, pigeons, savory messes-- Besides unnumbered fond caresses." The wolf, by force of appetite, Accepts the terms outright, Tears glistened in his eyes; But faring on, he spies A galled spot on the mastiff's neck. "What's that?" he cries. "Oh, nothing but a speck." "A speck?"--"Ay, ay: 'tis not enough to pain me: Perhaps the collar's mark by which they chain me." "Chain! chain you! What! run you not, then, Just where you please and when?" "Not always, sir; but what of that?" "Enough for me, to spoil your fat! It ought to be a precious price Which could to servile chains entice; For me, I'll shun them while I've wit." So ran Sir Wolf, and runneth yet.

From the French of JEAN DE LA FONTAINE.

Translation of ELIZUR WRIGHT.

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RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.

FROM "RIENZI."

Friends! I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom. We are slaves! The bright sun rises to his course, and lights A race of slaves! he sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave! Not such as, swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame, But base, ignoble slaves!--slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords Rich in some dozen paltry villages, Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great In that strange spell,--a name! Each hour, dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cries out against them. But this very day An honest man, my neighbor (_pointing to_ PAOLO), --there he stands,-- Was struck--struck like a dog--by one who wore The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth, He tossed not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts, At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men, And suffer such dishonor? men, and wash not The stain away in blood? Such shames are common. I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to ye, I had a brother once, a gracious boy, Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look Of Heaven upon his face which limners give To the beloved disciple. How I loved That gracious boy! younger by fifteen years, Brother at once and son! He left my side; A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried For vengeance! Rouse ye, Romans! Rouse ye, slaves! Have ye brave sons?--Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die! Have ye fair daughters?--Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained. Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice, Be answered by the lash! Yet this is Rome, That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty ruled the world! Yet we are Romans! Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman Was greater than a king! And once again-- Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus!--once again, I swear, The eternal city shall be free; her sons shall walk with princes.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

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FALLEN GREECE.

FROM "THE GIAOUR."

Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land, from plain to mountain-cave, Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! Shrine of the mighty! can it be That this is all remains of thee? Approach, thou craven, crouching slave; Say, is not this Thermopylae? These waters blue that round you lave, O servile offspring of the free,-- Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? The gulf, the rock of Salamis! These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear, And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They too will rather die than shame; For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son, Though baffled oft is ever won. Hear witness, Greece, thy living page; Attest it, many a deathless age: While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land! There points thy Muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that cannot die! 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, Each step from splendor to disgrace: Enough,--no foreign foe could quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell; Yes! self-abasement paved the way To villain-bonds and despot sway.

What can he tell who treads thy shore? No legend of thine olden time, No theme on which the Muse might soar, High as thine own in days of yore, When man was worthy of thy clime. The hearts within thy valleys bred, The fiery souls that might have led Thy sons to deeds sublime, Now crawl from cradle to the grave, Slaves--nay, the bondsmen of a slave, And callous save to crime.

LORD BYRON.

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GREECE ENSLAVED.

FROM "CHILDE HAROLD" CANTO II.

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth, And long-accustomed bondage uncreate? Not such thy sons who whilom did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylæ's sepulchral strait,-- O, who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb?

Spirit of Freedom! when on Phyle's brow Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, But every earle can lord it o'er thy land; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned.

In all save form alone, how changed! and who That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, Who but would deem their bosoms burned anew With thy unquenched beam, lost liberty! And many dream withal the hour is nigh That gives them back their fathers' heritage; For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page.

Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not, Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No! True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe! Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame!

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now. Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroic earth. Broke by the share of every rustic plough: So perish monuments of mortal birth. So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth;

Save where some solitary column mourns Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave; Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, Where the gray stones and long-neglected grass Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, While strangers only not regardless pass, Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh "Alas!"

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild, Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields; There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, The free-born wanderer of thy mountain air; Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare: Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.

Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy ground; No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

LORD BYRON.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE GREEK POET.

FROM "DON JUAN," CANTO III.

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet; But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' Islands of the Blest.

The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea: And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations--all were his! He counted them at break of day-- And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush? Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae!

What! silent still? and silent all? Ah no!--the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise--we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain,--in vain; strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call, How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,-- Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave,-- Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served, but served Polycrates,-- A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! O that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock and Parga's shore Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there perhaps some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks,-- They have a king who buys and sells: In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade,-- see their glorious black eyes shine; But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die. A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine,-- Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

LORD BYRON.

* * * * *

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.

When Love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within my gates, And by divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered with her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups pass swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The mercy, sweetness, majesty And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud, how good He is, how great should be, Enlargèd winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

* * * * *

SLAVERY.

FROM "THE TIMEPIECE": "THE TASK," BK. II.

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. There is no flush in man's obdurate heart; It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is served as the flax, That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colored like his own, and, having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And, worse than all, and most to be deplored As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. No; dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home.--Then why abroad? And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire; that, where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.

WILLIAM COWPER.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN.

[After the English Revolution of 1688, all bishops were compelled to swear allegiance to William and Mary. Seven of them, adherents of James II., refused and were imprisoned for treason,--the "Non-Jurors." Trelawney of Cornwall was one.]