^ fr ,s s ^ <^ 9-O v ^<3* 5? ^ +-"'.'■ % ^ °^ ^^ r <*> 4 o *A\II '^^ 3 ^ d XENIOLA. POEMS, INCLUDING TRANSLATIONS SCHILLER AND DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE. JOHN ANSTER, LL.D., BARRISTER AT LAW, AUTHOR OF " FAUSTUS, A DRAMATIC MYSTERY," FROM GOETHE. ILLIKEN AND SON, T^R^FWtfTsTREET; BOOKSELLERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. LONGMAN, REES, ORME, AND CO., LONDON, M.DCCC.XXXVII. '.Pi in? Printed by R. Gbaisberry. >7( THE RIGHT REVEREND STEPHEN C. SANDES, D.D, LORD BISHOP OF KILLALOE AND CLONFERT, THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, WITH FEELINGS OF THE HIGHEST RESPECT AND ESTEEM, BY JOHN ANSTER. PREFACE. The poems of which this volume consists were, with a few unimportant exceptions, written many years ago, and are now printed because " they have given plea- sure to those whom I most wished to please," and because — feeling that the occupations of active life leave me little chance of future leisure for such stu- dies—I wish to preserve some record of the happy period of life at which they were composed. The translations were written at a period not considerably later. They are faithful, I believe, to the leading thought, and almost always to the very letter of the original. The powers, however, of the language in which I write, and not those of that from which I translate, necessarily govern and mould the forms of expression adopted. This at times produces com- pression — at times expansion — but never a wilful de- viation from my author's meaning. CONTENTS. Page. Time 1 Alfred 2 Elegy 3 The Poet's Haunt 9 The Everlasting Rose 12 Home 14 Mirth and Grief 18 " A Dream remembered in a Dream" ... 22 " No Lute's Enchanting Minstrelsy" ... 25 Ballad 27 Dirge, from the Gaelic 29 "If I might choose" 32 Matilda 33 Emblems 38 " Oh ! if, as Arabs fancy !" 41 Hymn, from the German 44 Lines on the Death of the Princess Charlotte . 47 Ode to Fancy 62 Solitude . 69 Fragment 77 Reverie ■ . . .78 X CONTENTS. Page. Triumph of Music 106 Latin translation of the poem entitled " Time" . Ill Memory, from the German of S. E. W. Von Sassen 112 Ranz des Vaches, from Schiller's William Tell . 113 The Pilgrimage; from De La Motte Fou que . 121 The Five Oaks of Dallwitz j from Korner . .163 Gipsey Song 165 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, TIME Seen through pure crystal the imprisoned sand, Without a murmur, counts its flowing hour ; — The dial's shifting bar of shade ; — the hand Of the hall-clock, that with a life-like power Moves undisturbed : — the equal pulse of Time Throbs on, as beats man's heart in happy health, Not noticed-, yet how sure ! with easy stealth, Unwearied in its ministry sublime : — And there are those to whom the matin lark Proclaims day's duties, or the cock, whose cheer Came sad to panic-stricken Simon's ear, When for a little moment Faith was dark : — Frail heart ! — that still believed, yet shook to hear The storm of man's vain anger round his bark ! 1824. ALFRED. Alfred, — oh read his tale by Milton told ! — In seasons, when the change of day and night Doth, in our heaven, ill separate the light For studious men, his hands in prayer did fold By angels seen — and coloured tapers bright Each lone hour's watch with varying hues record, While Europe's fates, in ample scroll unrolled, Are spread before the Mighty Island's lord ; — And then and now hath Alfred his reward ! Of all that noble life no hour was lost ; — Thoughtful in act, — and active while he prayed,- He loved the land, for which his vows were paid, Restored to peace a people tempest-tossed, And England is the nation he hath made ! 1824. ELEGY Oh breathe not— breathe not — sure 'twas something holy- Earth hath no sounds like these — again it passes With a wild, low voice, that slowly rolls away, Leaving a silence not unmusical ! — And now again the wind-harp's frame hath felt The spirit — like the organ's richest peal Rolls the long murmur — and again it comes, That wild, low, wailing voice — These sounds to me Bear record of strange feelings. It was evening, — In my bowered window lay this talisman, That the sighing breezes there might visit it ; — And I was wont to leave my lonely heart, Like this soft harp, the play-thing of each impulse, The sport of every breath. I sate alone Listening for many minutes — the sounds ceased, Or, tho' unnoted by the idle ear, Were mingling with my thoughts — I thought of one, b2 4 ELEGY. And she was of the dead — She stood before me, With sweet sad smile, like the wan moon at midnight, Smiling in silence on a world at rest. I rushed away — I mingled with the mirth Of the noisy many — it is strange, that night, With a light heart, with light and lively words, I sported hours away, and yet there came At times wild feelings — words will not express them — But it seemed, that a chill eye gazed upon my heart, That a wan cheek, with sad smile, upbraided me, I felt that mirth was but a mockery, Yet I was mirthful. I lay down to sleep — I did not sleep — I could not choose but listen, For o'er the wind-harp's strings the spirit came With that same sweet low voice. Yes ! thou mayest smile, But I must think, my friend, as then I thought, That the voice was her's, whose early death I mourned, That she it was, who breathed those solemn notes, Which like a spell possessed the soul. — I lay Wakeful, the prey of many feverish feelings, My thoughts were of the dead! — at length I slept, If it indeed were sleep. — She stood before me ELEGY. O In beauty — the wan smile had passed away — ■ Her eye was bright — I could not bear its brightness. Till now I knew not Death was terrible, For seldom did I dwell upon the thought, And if, in some wild moment, fancy shaped A world of the departed, 'twas a scene Most calm and cloudless, or, if clouds at times Stained the blue quiet of the still soft sky, They did not dim its charm, but suited well The stillness of the scene, like thoughts that move Silently o'er the soul, or linger there Shedding a tender twilight pensiveness I This is an idle song ! — I cannot tell What charms were her's who died — I cannot tell What grief is their's whose spirits weep for her ! — Oh, many were the agonies of prayer, And many were the mockeries of hope ; And many a heart, that loved the weak delusion, Looked forward for the rosy smiles of health, And many a rosy smile passed o'er that cheek, Which will not smile again ; — and the soft tinge, That often flushed across that fading face, And made the stranger sigh, with friends would wake A momentary hope ; — even the calm tone, With which she spoke of death, gave birth to thoughts, Weak, trembling thoughts, that the lip uttered not.., t> ELEGY. And when she spok e with those, whom most she mourn 'd To leave, and when thro' clear calm tears the eye Shone with unwonted light, oh, was there not In its rich sparkle something, that forbade The fear of death ? — and when, in life's last days, The same gay spirit, that in happier hours Had charactered her countenance, still gleamed On the sunk features — when such playful words, As once could scatter gladness on all hearts, Still trembled from the lip, and o'er the souls Of those who listened shed a deeper gloom — In hours of such most mournful gaiety, Oh, was there not even then a lingering hope, That flitted fearfully, like parent birds, Fast fluttering o'er their desolated nest ? Mourn not for her who died ! — she lived as saints Might pray to live — she died as Christians die ; — There was no earthward struggle of the heart, No shuddering terror — no reluctant sigh. They, who beheld her dying, fear not Death ! Silently — silently the spoiler came, As sleep steals o'er the senses, unperceived, And the last thoughts, that soothed the waking soul, Mingle with our sweet dreams Mourn not for her ! Oh, who art thou, that, with weak words of comfort, Would'st bid the mourner not to weep ?— would'st win ELEGY. 7 The cheek of sorrow to a languid smile ? Thou dost not know with what a pious love Grief dwells upon the dead ! — thou dost not know With what a holy zeal Grief treasures up All that recalls the past ! — when the dim eye Rolls objectless around, thou dost not know What forms are floating o'er the mourner's soul ! — Thou dost not know with what a soothing art Grief, that rejects man's idle consolations, Makes to itself companionable friends Of all, that charmed the dead ! her robin still Seeks at the wonted pane his morning crumbs, And, surely, not less dear for the low sigh, His visit wakes ! — and the tame bird, who loved To follow with gay wing her every step, Who oft, in playful fits of mimicry, Echoed her song, is dearer for her sake ! — The wind, that from the hawthorn's dewy blossoms Brings fragrance, breathes of her ! — the moral lay, That last she loved to hear, with deeper charm Speaks to the spirit now ! — even these low notes, Breathed o'er her grave, will sink into the soul, A pensive song that Memory will love In pensive moments. Mourners, is there not An angel, that illumes the house of mourning ? The Spirit of the Dead — a holy image, i 8 ELEGY. Shrined in the soul — for ever beautiful, Undimmed with earth — its tears — its weaknesses — And changeless, as within the exile's heart The picture of his country ; — there no clouds Darken the hills — no tempest sweeps the vale, — And the loved forms, he never more must meet, Are with him in the vision, fair, as when, Long years ago, they clasped his hands at parting ! 1817. POET'S HAUNT. 'Tis beautiful indeed — thro' parted boughs To see the moving clouds darkening the sky, To mark their many-shifting forms, and tints, As slow they pass ; then see the lively blue Pure, spotless, like the soul, that hath not known Unworthy passions, or, if dimmed awhile, Soon shines reclaimed ; 'tis sweet to view that rill Stealing through moss-grown stones, so playfully, As if it feared to soil one starry flower : — How many a wild-rose wreath along its bank Might I now gather, but methinks the Fay, Whose little urn supplies this sparkling stream, Who flings the morning dew-drop on this rose, Would shun the violated haunt, nor bid The water, as it drips from stone to stone, Then flows continuous, till some gadding briar 10 THE POET'S HAUNT. Or wild-flower's tuft impede its onward course, Speak to the ear with soft and pleasant voice, Like broken music of some oft-heard song, That in the lonely hour we fain would catch, That blesses now, and now eludes the ear — How do I love to lie beneath the shade Of this broad sycamore ! the Spirit here, That loves the song, oft lingers, while the soul Lies in that doubtful mood, when thoughts, that pass Across its moveless surface, leave no trace, When Memory sleeps, and Feeling only wakes, And we but learn from interrupted thought That we had thought at all — then, not in vain, Doth Nature breathe, and Nature's breath is song ! Thou dost not rightly worship Poetry, To whom there is no music in the leaves Rustling with ceaseless murmur, as the winds Play thro' their boughs — if, when the thunders roar, And the red lightnings roll in orbs of fire, Or glance in arrowy flight, thou canst but feel The throb of selfish fear — then seek some fane More suited to such feelings, nor presume To bow before the shrine of Poetry ! Does thy soul slumber, when the rising lark Pours all his spirit in the full-voiced song, A hymn of worship at the eastern shrine Of Day's ascending god ? And in thy heart THE POET'S HAUNT. 11 Wakes there no answering music of sweet thoughts, Of such strong power to steal thee from thyself, That even the song of lark, the hum of bee, All Nature's harmonies of morning joy, Seem, when thou wakest from the holy spell, But fragments of thy broken meditations, Or echoes of the minstrelsy within ? If, in the silence of the noon-day hour, Thou dost not own serenity of soul, A spirit, that can love the quietude, And gaze in joy upon the thousand forms That float unceasingly before its ken ; If, when the robin warbles from yon bough, Not uninspired, his descant passionate To eve's first star, that gilds the twilight trees, Thou canst not give a moral to the song ; If, when the moon sheds her still sober light Upon this water, and deludes the eye With show of motion, there is in thy heart No pulse of pleasure ; — hence, for ever hence, Oh, shun this bank ! it is the Poet's Haunt ! 1814. 12 EVERLASTING ROSE. Emblem of Hope ! enchanted flower, Still breathe round thy faint perfume, Still smile amid the wintry hour, And jpoast even now a spring-tide bloom. Thine is, methinks, a pleasant dream, Lone lingerer in the icy vale, Of smiles, that hailed the morning beam, And sighs more sweet for evening's gale ! Still are thy green leaves whispering Low sounds, to fancy's ear that tell Of mornings, when the wild bee's wing Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell In April's bower thy sweets are breathed, June sees with joy thy blossoms fair ; In Autumn's chaplet thou art wreathed, And round December's forehead bare. THE EVERLASTING ROSE. 13 With thee the graceful lily vied, As summer breezes waved her head, And now the snow-drop at thy side Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red. Well dost thou know each varying voice, That wakes the seasons sad or gay ; The summer thrush bids thee rejoice, And wintry robin's dearer lay. Sweet Flower ! how happy dost thou seem 'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost ; While, gathering beauty from each beam, No hue, no grace of thine is lost ! Thus Hope, 'mid life's severest days, Still soothes, still smiles away despair ; Alike she lives in Pleasure's rays, And cold Affliction's winter air. Charmer alike in lordly bower, And in the hermit's cell she glows ; The Poet's and the Lover's flower, The bosom's Everlasting Rose ! Feb. 1814. 14 HOME Haunts of my youthful days, though distant far, My spirit is with you ! oh, I could weep, Vexed with the jarrings of this noisy world, To think upon thy deep tranquillity, Mine own loved home ! the struggles and the strife Of worthless ones, that sink into the heart, Turned all its blood to poison ! — I have thought Of thee, and I am calm ! thy trees arose Brightening before mine eye : the pleasantness That slumbers in thy vallies — the soft hues That bathe thy sunny hills — all met my soul : And lovelier far than Nature's outward forms, The Spirit of Domestic Happiness : The voice of her I loved was in my ear, She smiled serenity, and I am calm. Haunts of my childhood, now I think of you, And thoughts and feelings gush along my heart, Sweet as the music of my native stream ! — — Feelings more holy never, with the breeze HOME. 15 Of evening, stole into the spirit of him Who plies his bark on Uri's lonely lake, And meditates on Tell — the while he sees, Darkening the wave beneath, the fane which speaks The patriot's triumph, and his country's love : The tear is on his cheek — his heart is full — A brighter tinge hath lit his streaming eye, With gentler sweep he draws the gliding oar, Fearful to break those shadows on the wave, Which wake such deep, such sacred sympathies ! — Haunts of my childhood, are ye still as fair As when I wandered through each green recess ? Still does the soft breeze, with his idle breath, Stirring at once a thousand twinkling leaves, Utter neglected music ? — does the cloud, In whose dark womb the noon-day sun is hid, Whose folds are lightly coloured with his beams, Still hang as lovely in the silent, sky ? — Is Nature still the same, although no more An eye is there, to hold deep intercourse With all her forms, although no heart is there To feel her power and hymn her holiness ? Oft have I thought some bond of mighty strength Had linked me in a strange identity With outward accidents of Nature — oft, Methought, some spell of more than human force Had lulled to rest my individual self, 16 HOME. And that one soul inspired the scenes around, The spacious sky — the universal air — And him, who gazed in rapture on the sight ! And now in crowded city, oh, how strange, How impious does this separation seem From all I wish and love — even from myself ! —Yet have I oft-times held communion high And holy with the absent scenery; Oft listened, till within the silent soul Was heard the flow of waters, and the stir Of summer leaves — till every form I loved Was with me — till I ceased to be alone. Dear are such visions to the thinking soul, And like in love, as in their nature like, To those fair forms, that having passed from earth, Return at twilight, and the musing man Before whose eye they move, conceives their looks Chastened, refined, and purified by Death ! Spirits, that oft on light and dewy wing Hovered around the cradle of my childhood, Touching the dreaming infant's cheek with smiles, And, in the hours of my advancing age, Have, with such music as the unseen lark Oft sends into the morning traveller's soul, Poured strains of more than earthly melody, In calm and awful accents, to the heart, Breathing along those inward chords that thrill HOME. 17 With imbid impulse to the poet's lay ; — Spirits, ye have not yet deserted me ! Ye have not left me, darkly wandering, Companionless, unguided in a world I cannot mingle with ! conflicting men May rudely throw me from their noisy converse, Or stretch the hand of seeming brotherhood, And mock with their love — Haunts of my youth, Ye will not mock me, and ye cannot change ! 1814. 18 MIRTH AND GRIEF. AN ALLEGORY. " These things are a mysterie, and but to be understood^ of the auctor himselfe." Gascoigne. " My muse doth not delight Me as she did before ; My hand and pen are not in plight As they have been of yore." Lord Vaux. In vain — ah me ! — in vain, with murmured charm Of love-inwoven sounds, would I recall The long-forgotten art — in vain implore At noon the colouring of the morning heavens ! — Glad Words, that once as with a robe of light Would meet the coming Fancies, where are they ? And where, oh where are they, the angel guests ? W T hy have they gone, or wherefore did they come ? And yet, methinks, they are not far remote, MIRTH AND GRIEF. 19 But that mine eye is dim and sees them not ; — But that mine heart is dead and does not feel ;* — Where is the music of the spirit gone ? Where now the heart that never knew a care — That saw, in all things round, Love, only Love ? — Gone with the hues of morning — with the hopes Of boyhood — with the glories of the spring ;— Gone with the dead — the unreturning dead ! In vain — in vain — the Spirit will not come ! Yet I have watched each stirring of the heart, Till Sorrow, self-amused, smiles playfully, Till Fancies vague seem gifted with strange life, Surprise the ear with voices of their own, And shine distinct, and fair, and shadowless, Self-radiant, on a self-illumined stage, Pure Forms, whose Being is the magic light In which they move — all beauty ! How it hangs Enamoured round them ! In what tender folds The thin veil, flowing with the sportive breeze Of dallying, thought, returns, and fondly stirs The amber ringlets o'er each little brow, Fans softly the blue veins — and lingering lies Trembling and happy on the kindred cheek ! * " Die Geisterwelt ist nicht verschlossen ; Dein sinn ist zu, dein Hertz ist todt !" Goethe. s c 2 20 MIRTH AND GRIEF. In vain — ; n vain ! They are not what they were ! The lights are dim,— the pageant fades away, Lost on the disenchanted heart and eye ; Cold, icy cold, they glimmer — idly play With languid feelings — feeble are the hues, And faint the failing hand, that fears to trace Forms seldom seen — seen only in still hours, When dreams are passing into dream-like thought, And, for a little moment, sleep the cares That vex with pain, and each day grieve and wound The God within, disquieting man's heart ! Lady, forgive these broken images, — Forgive the wiles of Grief, that fain would smile, And so she plays with her dead brother's toys, The cheerful boy who died in infancy ; Or wilt thou smile with me, and gaze with me — As in the peaceful twilight of a dream That mingles death and life, — on Mirth and Grief? One happy human bosom was their home, And Mirth, with rosy lips and bold bright eyes, That rolled, and laughed, and knew not where to rest, Kissed off the tears from his pale sister's face ; 'Twas sweet to see her smiling playfully, While he, a masquer blythe, in tragic weeds Robed his light limbs, and hid his laughing face, And moved with pensive mien and solemn pomp MIRTH AND GRIEF. 2i Of measured gesture ; — 'twas a part played well, Yet half betrayed by the capricious voice, That could not long uphold the lofty tone ; And by the glances of the conscious eye, Where tell-tale smiles would slily still peep out ; "While, half deluded by his own quaint humour, And vain withal, no doubt, the lively elf Looked round for praise ; — but then he felt the tear Come sudden to disturb the quivering eye, And fall in fire upon the burning cheek ! Vfc 7& "5T* ^ vfc Lady, forgive these broken images — That, like the dew-drops from a shaken flower, Fall cold, and shine, and are for ever lost, Seen only in the breeze that scatters them. 1822. 22 A DREAM REMEMBERED IN A DREAM."* Mine was a dream of strange delight. And did not vanish with the nigh't. ' Methought a Voice w r as leading me Thro' dusk walks of a lonesome wood — A dedicated solitude — A voice that was a mastery. Like the voices faint and mild, We have heard, and evermore Seem in sabbath hours to hear, When the heart, half reconciled To the losses we deplore, Meets again with love and fear — Fear subdued, and love chastised — The dead, till death too little prized ; When they, for whom we did not live, In heaveu still love us, still forgive, * " You stood before me, like a thought, A dream remembered in a dream." Coleridge, Recollections of Love. : " A DREAM REMEMBERED IN A DREAM." 23 And voices to the heart are brought Again in dreams, and dreamy thought. On wandered we, in vision vague, Above the trembling line of Maige ! What wonder, if the pleasant voice, The leading music of my dream Changed as we glided by the stream, And seemed to murmur and rejoice, As, sleepless in the moon-beams, smiled The stream that soothed me, man and child ! And then uprose, like fairy throngs A crowd of Fancies fugitive — Such forms as for a moment live In seeming life, and glance, and give Their beauty to the eye, revealing A charm, that is a sense, a feeling — — Not unlike the odour left, When the loose wind's pleasant theft On a bank, with may-dews wet, Stirs the wakeful violet — Fancies, blossomings of love, Like the breathing from above, That is felt, and that belongs To one minstrel, only one — To the song of many songs, To the song of Solomon ! 24 " A DREAM REMEMBERED IN A DREAM." Dusk Night, though dark, how beautiful ! Thine the consoling sounds, that lull Men happy or unfortunate, Raise up the sad, calm the elate ! And thine alike o'er all to sweep The curtain of mysterious sleep ; And thine, while in the cloud we lie, The dreams, too bright for waking eye — The heaven, that for a moment seems Before us in the spell of dreams ! Whose was the voice that led me on ? Who walked with me that pleasant wood? The voice, her voice — her very tone — Her unforgotten words renewed — The radiant eyes — the folded hair — The lips — the love reposing there — Day wakes me from the conscious trance, And still before my eyes I trace The lines of that beloved face — And that transfigured countenance ! 1827. 25 NO LUTE'S ENCHANTING MINSTRELSY.' No lute's enchanting minstrelsy ! No magic chords awake for me ! For my music I demand Finger raised of moving hand ; Bowing head, and lips comprest, That murmur not, though scarce at rest, And with every varied rhyme Mark the thought and mete the time ; Forehead, which the tender vein With a violet streak doth stain, Shaded by the brown lock's maze, — For my spell forbids to raise The white hand, that would repress And reprove each truant tress — Lest it break the deep suspense Of delighted thought intense. O'er the snowy forehead flit Gleams, that do illumine it, Swift they come, and swift they flee Felt by her, and felt by me, 26 "no lute's enchanting minstrelsy.' Fain, methinks, would they repose On that bed of placid snows, But must fly like glancing thought, For repose is suffered not. I too challenge from thine eyes Sympathy and sweet surprise, — Eyes that smile because they must, Yet the smile speaks half distrust. 1825. 27 BALLAD.* The summer sun was sinking With a mild light, calm and mellow, It shone on my little boy's bonny cheeks, And his loose locks of yellow ; The robin was singing sweetly, And his song was sad and tender ; And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the song, Smiled with a sweet soft splendour. My little boy lay on my bosom While his soul the song was quaffing, The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek, And his heart and his eye were laughing : * The woman, in whose character these lines are written, sup- poses her child stolen by a fairy. I need not mention how preva- lent the superstition is in Ireland, which attributes most instances of sudden death to the agency of these spirits. 28 BALLAD. I sate alone in my cottage, The midnight needle plying ; I feared for my child, for the rush's light In the socket now was dying ! There came a hand to my lonely latch, Like the wind at midnight moaning ; I knelt to pray, but rose again, For I heard my little boy groaning : I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast, But that night my child departed — They left a weakling in his stead, And I am broken-hearted ! Oh ! it cannot be my own sweet boy, For his eyes are dim and hollow, My little boy is gone — is gone, And his mother soon will follow ! The dirge for the dead will be sung for me, And the mass be chaunted meetly, And I shall sleep with my little boy, In the moonlight churchyard sweetly. 1816. 29 DIRGE. FROM THE GAELIC. CHORUS. Like the oak of the vale was thy strength and thy height, Thy foot, like the erne* of the mountain in flight : Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce breath, Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was death ! — Alas ! how soon the thin cold cloud The hero's bloody limbs must shroud! And who shall tell his sire the tale ! And who shall soothe his widow's wail ! — I see thy father, full of days ; For thy return behold him gaze ; The hand, that rests upon the spear, Trembles in feebleness and fear — He shudders, and his bald grey brow Is shaking like the aspen-bough, * Eagle. 30 DIRGE. He gazes, till his dim eyes fail With gazing on the fancied sail ; — Anxious he looks — what sudden streak Flits like a sunbeam o'er his cheek ! — " J°y> j°y> m y child, it is the bark That bounds on yonder billow dark !" — His child looks forth with straining eye, And sees — the light cloud sailing by — — His grey head shakes ; — how sad, how weak That sigh ! — how sorrowful that cheek ! — His bride from her slumbers will waken and weep, But when shall the hero arouse him from sleep ? The yell of the stag-hound — the clash of the spear, May ring o'er his tomb, — but the dead will not hear ; Once he wielded the sword, once he cheered to the hound, But his pleasures are past, and his slumber is sound ; — Await not his coming, ye sons of the chace, Day dawns ! — but it nerves not the dead for the race ; — Await not his coming, ye sons of the spear, The war-song ye sing — but the dead will not hear ! Oh blessing be with him who sleeps in the grave, The leader of Lochlin ! the young and the brave ! — On earth didst thou scatter the strength of our foes, — Then blessing be thine in thy cloud of repose ! DIRGE. 31 CHORUS. Like the oak of the vale was thy strength and thy height, Thy foot, like the erne of the mountain in flight ; Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce breath, Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was death ! — 1815. 32 IF I MIGHT CHOOSE," &c. If I might choose, where my tired limbs shall lie When my task here is done, the Oak's green crest Shall rise above my grave — a little mound Raised in some cheerful village-cemetery — And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by — In music — through the long soft twilight hours ; — And let the hand of her, whom I love best, Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers, In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest — And should the robin, from some neighbouring tree, Pour his enchanted song — oh, softly tread, For sure, if aught of earth can soothe the dead, He still must love that pensive melody ! 1815. S3 MATILDA. Scene. — A Terrace overlooking the Garden of a Convent — Matilda and Bertha in conversation. Matilda. Oh ! think not that I mourn the lonely doom That hath been destined for me — oft, indeed, Visions of more than beauty float before Mine eye, and I will gaze and gaze upon them, But with such feelings, as the bride beholds Her father's house, when she abandons it With him, whom she hath loved from infancy ! — But with such feelings, as the hunter owns, When from some Alpine steep he gazes down Through cold chasms of a rifted cloud, and sees Cities, and seats of men — far, far below, With black gulfs rolling billowy between — Mayhap, while gazing on the prospect, tinged With the rising sun, the lonely man will sigh, D 34 MATILDA. And then with not less eagerness pursue The solitary toil he loves. Bertha. Matilda, Thou lovest too well the mockeries of fancy ! This is what makes me grieve — thy lovely spirit Sheds o'er each scene its own rich colouring — Even these damp walls, that, when I first came hither, 'Did frown with such blank silence, will assume At times a cheerful aspect — it were strange If I loved not thy favorite walk — the lark Flies not more lightly o'er its jealous bounds, Than my heart dances, when I meet thee here. Yet this, Matilda — this doth make me grieve ! Thou lovest too well the mockeries of fancy ! Some vague conceit — some loose analogy — The shadow of a cloud — a lonely flower — The stirring of a moonbeam on the waters — Will fix thy fate for ever ; but the heart Will wake, ere long, from the delusive dream, To curse Imagination's hollow vaunts! — Matilda. This, Bertha this, — from thee ! I wondered not, When from the dull of heart, and cold of spirit, I heard such bodings ; — why must thou too mock me ? MATILDA. 35 Mine is a lonely doom — but it is doomed ! — And who hath told thee, that I am not happy ? When hast thou seen me weep ? do I not smile, Even now, at thy strange warnings ? — if I were As weak as thou dost deem, it sure were harsh To mock at such distemper ; — when the maniac Weaves for his brow an idle wreath of flowers, And rears his gyved arm in regal pride, Wisdom most surely doth not mock the pageant !— If, when the clouds of eve lie slumberingly, Like a hushed forest in some distant world, I gaze upon them, till my spirit builds A bower, where it may rest ; — soon, very soon, Its hues will vanish in the thick black night— — There wanteth not the cold breath of a friend, To dissipate the phantoms that I love ! Bertha. Matilda ! is this kind ? — thou dost not know me — Thou wilt not know me — when will friends believe, Undoubtingly, the language of their friends ? — Thou yet wilt grieve to think how thou hast wronged me ! {Exit Bertha. Matilda — (After a pause of some minutes.) Proud heart, but kind ! — lively and quick to anger, d 2 36 MATILDA. But most affectionate ; — how could I wound thee? — But, thus it is, I cannot have a friend, One, who will bear with my most wayward temper — Even Bertha shrinks from me — I've lost 'em all — I've lost 'em by neglect of some dull form, By absence of some cold civility, Some phrase, ill-understood, or idly echoed By those, who watch the wanderings of the eye, The casual changes of the vacant features, And think, sage reasoners, that they read the mind ! — — Well, it were weak to mourn ; — this loneliness Best suits my lot ; my home, henceforth, must be The narrow cell, whose solitary floor Shall seldom echo other step than mine ! 'Twould ill beseem the veiled maid, to sigh For earth, or its enjoyments ; — and the world, That ere the grave is closed forgets the dead, Will never waste a thought upon the absent ! — The world ! oh, why should I still haunt its walks? I love it not ! — I seek it not ! their hearts Are not as mine ! — my woes must be my own ! I ask not pity — cannot suffer sympathy Of flatterers, who watch the countenance, That they may know when it is fit to smile, — To echo, or anticipate the sigh — — Oh, better, better is this dreary scene — These floors, that echo back the measured step, As the pale votaress walks above the vaults MATILDA. 37 Where the dead lie ! — oh, better 'tis to muse, In twilight gloom beneath the elder's shade, Where the wreathed trunk affords no second seat, — How many a lonely night have I sate there, Watching the clouds, and shaping dreams as wild As the sick mind can fancy in their changes ! 1818. 38 EMBLEMS. " MARK YE WELL THE BLOOD-RED ROSE."* Mark ye well the blood-red Rose, Matin hour, her hood unclose, Ye shall in her blushing face The weeping dews of midnight trace. Such the glowing tint of shame Over Mary's cheek that came ; Like the pale night-dew I ween, Thy tears, mourning Magdalen, When gray-amiced dawn in peace Bade not Mary's vigils cease. Sweet the rose, and sweet the nard Grateful Mary's hand prepared, And, as softest odours breathe Sanguine leaves from underneath, * This poem, the insertion of which here is permitted at my anxious request, is from the pen of a. friend, whose name I am not allowed to give. EMBLEMS* 89 From the casket, of the flower, — : Think upon' that blessed hour^ Think up on the, box, that shed 1 ^ '< Perfume !o'er our Saviour's head, ; -- When the lowiy^ainfcstdoi^d w , - a n'* And embalmed her living Lord. Still the Rose hath mystery ! Think upon Gethsemane ! Mark upon the drooping leaf Beads of dew in orbed relief; Crimson tint, appearing through, Stains them with the life-blood's hue ; Think upon Christ's agonies! Lo ! he in the garden lies ; Seraphs view the mystic flood Of the suffering monarch's blood. Mark the Ruby, ye shall see Sign of perfect charity ; As the beryl imaged truth To the eye of spotless youth, —That the gem of virtue rare, Swaying spirits of the air, — So the pure, with saintly love, Shall the ruby's power prove ; There the blood of Jesus flows, Warm with chanty it glows. 40 EMBLEMS. Yes, ye in the ruby red See the blood of Jesus shed ; It shall be Faith's optic glass ; —View the scene before you pass, Scene, where that dread mystery Closed upon bleak Calvary ! See the stream, the cross it stains, Bright as from our Saviour's veins. Think, oh ! think that even thus God hath shed his blood for us ! 41 TO OH! IF, AS ARABS FANCY." Oh ! if, as Arabs fancy, the traces on thy brow- Were symbols of thy future fate, and I could read them now, Almost without a fear would I explore the mystic chart, Believing that the world were weak to darken such a heart. As yet to thy untroubled soul, as yet to thy young eyes, The skies above are very heaven — the earth is paradise ; The birds that glance in joyous air — the flowers that happiest be, That " toil not, neither do they spin," — are they not types of thee ? 42 " OH ! IF, AS ARABS FANCY." And yet, and yet — beloved child,— to thy enchan- ted sight, Blest as the present is, the days to come seem yet more bright, For thine is hope, and thine is love, and thine the glorious power, That gives to hope its fairy light, to love its richest dower. For me that twilight time is past — those sun-rise co- lours gone— The prophecies of childhood — and, the promises of dawn ; And yet what is, tho' scarcely heard, will speak of WHAT HAS BEEN, While Love assumes a gentler tone, and Hope a calmer mien. Oh ! could we know — oh ! could we feel, that bles- sings haunt each spot, Even children — each its angel hath — albeit we see them not — That earth to them who live in faith, still is what they believe, And they, who fear deception most, themselves indeed deceive. " OH ! IF, AS ARABS FANCY." 43 My child, my love, my Nannie, at this hour my heart flows free, And wanders over field and flower where I have strayed with thee ; Thy very voice — thy very smile — is present with me still, And it^commands me from afar, almost against my will. To-day I trod enchanted ground, and saw the Sunset gleam Upon Kilcoleman's fading tower and Spenser's lonely stream, Even then, as in my youth, I felt the minstrel sha- dows come, And my heart, that sported all day long, — sank, pow- erless — passive — dumb. How was it that thine image, Anne, was with me in that hour. All that thou wert and art, — and, when my soul re- sumed its power, I sought — I almost fear in vain — that feeling to prolong And give it utterance in verse, — accept — forgive the song! 1832. 44 HYMN. FROM THE GERMAN. 'Tis an hour to think and feel ! — With prostrate heart and folded hand And eyes uplifted, brethren kneel ! Bless, oh God, our native land ! — Cling to hope with heart and blood — He is gracious ! — He is good ! 'Tis an hour to think and feel, — For the pure of heart to kneel ! Let the panting earth rejoice With the bell's triumphing peal ! With the echo of man's voice Make the hymning temple reel ! Upward o'er the lofty choir, Like a cloud of smoke and fire, Bid the organ's breath aspire ;— > Spirits of our brethren dead, Over us your presence spread HYMN. 45 While we bend in faith and fear, Be our guardian angels here ! Native la.nd ! how sweet the sound ! Dearer, every hour more dear ! With thee, best gift, God's gifts are crowned, Thine all we cherish and revere ! Love — Joy — the common air we breathe, All that we have or seek beneath ; Till dying we lie down to rest, And sink upon thy parent breast ! The joys that blossom-like in youth First bloomed, all had their birth with thee — Hope, Friendship, that with Love and Truth, Like brothers, dwelt in unity. Our first-formed prayer of gratitude ; — Faith, that in many trials stood ; — The heart, that does not fear to live, Or die ;— all these were thine to give ! God in Heaven ! look down we pray, Guard, Father, guard our native land, God in Heaven ! be thou our stay, Spread over us thy parent hand ! — The single eye — the conscience freed — The heart at peace is joy indeed ! If brothers here would live in love, Then were Earth like Heaven above ! 46 HYMN. Give day by day our daily bread, — In death oh scatter nature's dread ! — In crowded street, on pathless hill, Where'er we be, be with us still ! — Teach rebel passions to obey, Till sinners walk in wisdom's way ! — Poor let us be in all men's eyes, Yet such as no man may despise ! Glad be our spirits — swift our zeal To do what God's clear law commands ! And wakeful be our hearts to feel What he forbids ! and pure our hands ! Cleanse Thou our hearts from human pride ; And fight and conquer, on our side, O'er Sin dethroned, and Earth denied ! And when Ambition tempts, or Gold, Then be our spirits firm and cold ! What Fathers to their Children owe — Men to the land that gave them birth, — Still let us ward from watchful foe, Still shelter all we love on earth ! Then shall our day descend in peace, And Death shall smile, and Fear shall cease ; And see ! the Angel gliding down Through Heaven, with Heaven's pacific crown. 47 LINES ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.* Weep ! — for the wrath of God is over us ! Weep ! — for his arm is lifted to destroy ! Famine hath thinned the land! in Autumn's gale We felt his icy breath : — Plague rushes by, Or, resting in clear air on silent wing, Numbers his victims, who behold him not. — Still the same struggles for the same low ends ! Still the same passions ! — the same human heart ! Weep ! — a severer judgment ! — bend to earth The stubborn knee, and, ere the lightning strike, Oh call on heaven in agony of prayer ! Weep ! — a severer judgment ! — oh what woes * University Prize-Poem. Read in the Theatre of Trinity College, Dublin, Spring Commencements, 1818. 48 LINES ON THE DEATH OF Are destined for the earth ! what heavier clouds Of wrath are deepening round us ! — She hath died, — (Daughter of England, from what ills removed !) She, on whose heavenly life when good men looked, They thought on years of happiness to come, And felt with added joy the Briton's boast Of England, the proud mistress of the earth ! The angel-guarded home of Liberty ! A sudden chill hath withered every heart j And few there are, who, with untroubled eye, Have heard the tidings ! — in an under-tone Fathers repeat the tale, and, ere its close, See the tears shining on their children's cheeks ; And pause at heavy sobs, that half repressed Will force their way : the mother views in fear The fire-light glance upon the rosy face, And deems its flush the herald of decay. How hollow are the promises of earth ! Its hopes how fleeting ! all things round us breathe Still the same pensive moral : — I have wept To hear the heavy death-bell's dreary sounds, On a spring morn, when all things breathed of life, Tolling for one who died in youth's gay time, When joys were bright, and hopes were blossomy ! — Why linger to enforce such theme ? why tell, How vain all earthly objects of pursuit, — Flitting for ever like the idle cloud THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 49 Before the wind, what time, as Lochlin's bards Report, the Dead upon their shadowy steeds O'er the hill-tops pursue the phantom prey ? — — Nations have passed away ! — round Tadmor's walls, Her columned temples, her proud palaces The level dust in mournful silence lies ; Or, when the dry wind breathes, the traveller starts To see the Spirits of the Desert rise, And, wheeling round in wild fantastic whirl, Howl thro' lone streets, where man hath ceased to dwell. — Nations have passed away ! — along the deep The voice of the avenging angel came ; And where is Tyre ? — upon a lonely rock, A lone forgotten ruin of old time, The fisher dries his net, nor thinks of thee, Queen of the Ocean ! and his sullen song, And the hoarse sea-bird's scream alone are heard, Mingling with the dull wave monotonous. And thou, Eternal City ! — tho' no cloud Stain the soft beauties of that summer sky, Whose echoes still are musical with joy, Even in thy gay and laughing atmosphere Breathes noonday Pestilence, unfelt, unseen ! And, England, what art thou ? thy hills have rung With songs of joy, — with shouts of triumphing : — Never hath hostile banner in thy breeze 50 LINES ON THE DEATH OF Displayed its wanton pride : — thy gallant barks Like angels move along the peopled sea, To minister thy blessings, or discharge The thunders of thy wrath : — what glorious days Were thine, when the insulting crest of France Was crushed beneath thy foot ! — when monarchs came And gazed in wonder on the Mighty Isle ! — Oh then what words might paint the splendid dream Of him, who, looking with a prophet's eye Down the long depth of days to come, had fixed His view upon thy doom ? — the prospect holds Imagination captive; — old Romance Hath never imaged, in her wildest mood, A brighter picture : — on a lofty throne, Ringed with the best of England's chivalry, In royal robes, a lovely Lady sits : — Her brow is diademed ; and in her hand The golden sceptre rests, and evermore Her full eye fixes on the lordly form Of him who shares her seat : — and is there not A voice of blessing in that crowded hall ?— Oh for the spirit, that on Woodstock's bowers Shed light undying — oh for Chaucer's voice To tell what joyance rings the loud acclaim ; — " Blessing on Charlotte, and the happy youth Whom our good Queen hath gazed upon with love !' Oh for the heart of Spenser ! — to conceive That lovely Lady's feelings, when she looks HE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. £1 On her approving subjects ; — to conceive The thoughts, whose language is the silent tear, That swells from founts of gladness in the heart ! — The deeper joy that finds no utterance ! — But hush ! in that wide hall the sounds have ceased ; Envoys from distant lands approach, and bend Before the lofty throne ; — from those green vales Where Ganges, sacred river, rolls in joy ; — From Tonga's isles, that star the Peaceful Sea ; — From lone Columbia's wilds, where now at eve The Scottish shepherd sings his country's airs ; — ■ The trembling native hears along the lake Words wildly chaunted in an unknown tongue, And deems, his fathers' spirits gliding by Converse in the strange language of the Dead. All bow before the throne ; — all join the shout Of England's tribute to the righteous Queen. It was a dream ; — its hues have passed away ! Thus, where Vesuvio's streams of fire had rolled In savage triumph o'er some city's pride, When ages have passed on, the jealous mass, That closed abandoned streets, is hewn away, And he, who gazes through some fractured roof, Looks for a moment on the forms of men, Standing erect in attitude of life, — e2 52 LINES ON THE DEATH OF Till the cold air of earth hath breathed on them, And all is solitude and emptiness ! Daughter of England's hopes, amid what scenes Of bliss and beauty was it thine to move, Thyself more blessed, and more beautiful ! — What gentle feelings thro' that heavenly heart, Flowed on for ever, like the quiet lapse Of streams with music welcoming the Spring ! And Love, the angel of the female soul, Its guardian spirit, watched that happy home. In vain the glare of courts allured thine eye, Which gazed on all their joys, as angels gaze While pity mingles with their tears of love, On earth, what time the sinking sun hath stained The thin soft clouds, and all is beautiful ! Yes, there are Spirits, whom the cold heart knows not !— Spirits, that shun the dwellings of the great, And have their home within the sheltered vale. Unseen they mingle in the village dance ; Unseen they hover o'er the happy hearth ; While to his bright-eyed boy the peasant tells Some village-tale, or hums an idle song : — And he, who, with closed eye-lids, musing sits Beneath some bowering tree, may hear their voices THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 53 Mingling with the wild music of the winds, Or the soft melody of twilight waters ; — And they are echoed in the thinking heart I Oh Claremont, o'er thy home of blessedness Such Spirits watched ! — and ne'er hath humble maid Imagined, in her youthful dream of love, A paradise more sweet, than that still haunt, Where she, whom England's hopes beheld a Queen, With him, whom she had singled from the world, Dwelt in such bliss as worldlings will not know ! — I cannot linger on the thought ! — the heart Shrinks from the sight of pleasure past away, Of joy for ever clouded ! — that dull bell With ceaseless sound distracts the thinking soul, That fain would dwell on earth, and earthly joys, On youth, and on the hopes of youthful love : — Scattering in air such dreams of fairy land, It calls the spirit back to solemn thought ; And, as I listen to the sullen sounds, I see the lovely objects of my vision Swinging before me, dully, dizzily ! Oh there is grief on earth ! — o'er Windsor's halls The wan moon sheds her melancholy beams j But surely in her calm and lovely light There is a tenderness that sorrow loves ; And he who gazes on her placid orb 54 LINES ON THE DEATH OF May half forget his griefs ! these solemn bells Still with their regular and measured peals Chime heavily ! — I hear a distant hum, Like the long murmur of the evening waves Breaking upon the melancholy shore. And see ! — the pomp and pageantry of Death I Banners are waving in the midnight wind ; And heavy plumes are nodding mournfully ; Down Gothic aisles they move ; the chapel streams With a strong glare of thick unnatural light ; And sad it is to gaze along those aisles, And see the scutcheons held in trembling hands, Telling, even now, of earthly vanities ! — And sad it is to see the gorgeousness Of that drear pall, and think upon the hearts Reposing there for ever ! — by the glow Of waving torches you may see the cheeks Of Beauty pale, and stained with streaming tears ; And in the eye of man that faltering light, Which speaks the pang within, when tears are checked By strong but painful effort ! — not a voice Disturbs the solemn silence of the pile : — One feeling holds all bosoms, — Youth and Age ; — Youth — in whose heart Hope gazed exultingly Upon the future, with a prophet's eye ; Age — sick of earth, — whose blood had ceased to throb At man's delights, or man's calamities ; — The same strong feeling holds all bosoms here. THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 55 But there is one — whom every eye regards, — Whose eye is fastened on that lonely bier ; — He sees it not ! — but Leopold, to think Upon the images, that swim thro' tears Before thy troubled eye ! — whate'er they are, Still sacred be that noble spirit's grief ! — For pangs are written on the mourner's brow ; And that wan cheek — that dim and fixed eye Speak agonies man shudders to conceive ! — But hark ! — a tremulous and feeble voice ! — The broken voice of age ! — the herald iells Her name who lies beneath, her princely birth ! But what is Grandeur ? in an hour like this, All feel its nothingness ! — a deeper voice Gives utterance to those calm and solemn words, That tell us of the Dead, — who sleep in peace. They have laid down their burdens, and they rest. Earth ! unto thee do we confide our dead ! To thee, and to the dews of heaven confide The seed of frail Humanity, — and lo ! The heavenly blossom, the exulting flower — Like day from darkness — Man — Immortal Man ! Hush — for it is the pillared organ's peal, That sends into the soul its streams of sound, — Its deep unearthly music ! — what is Man That we should mourn for him ? — and what is Earth, That we should grieve for its calamities ? 56 LINES ON THE DEATH OF " I know that my Redeemer liveth." " /, / am the Resurrection and the Life" — How like an angel's voice the deep sounds roll, And waken thoughts, that are not of the earth. Hush !— for the sinking murmurs roll away ; But, ere the spell hath died upon the ear, You hear the human voice in mournful wail ; — And now again the long rich melody- Fills the wide pile ; — and, when its notes are hushed, The heart throbs audibly, and holy tears, That speak of heaven, are rushing to the eye ! " Mourn not, as they who mourn and have no hope." The last sad rites are paid ; and — earth to earth — The Beautiful, the Noble is consigned ! Charlotte of England, thou art laid in peace ! — Short was thy sojourn here, and, like the smile Of Heaven approving thy most blameless life, The glow of happiness was shed o'er thee ! Peace dwelleth in the silence of the grave ; And the bright stars, that smile like souls at rest, Oh, speak they not of peace ? — but there is grief On earth ; and they, who, from those misty aisles Pour, like a wave, into the moonlight air, Gaze for a moment on the holy stars, And the moon moving through the clear blue sky, And think with tears that all but earth is blest ! THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 57 Oh, whither, — whither shall the mourner go ? The Lover ? — the Beloved ? — he, who gazed Till now on the departed ? — he, who called On madness to relieve him from the pangs Of memory, that, with too faithful zeal, Is picturing the form of her he loved ? Whither, — oh whither shall the mourner go ? — His brain is swimming round in dizzy whirl ; Vainly he gazes on the quiet heavens ; — To him they speak not of tranquillity ! They smile ; — a chilling smile of mockery ! The stars are shivering in cold green light, — Cold as the lot of man ! — Oh, speak not now Of Nature sharing in our woes ! — the heart Forbids all sympathy, repels relief, — And scorns the airy fiction, that would blend Its feelings with the silent things of Nature. Spirit of the Departed ! smile on him, Who wanders now through thy deserted haunts, And casts a mournful glance upon the walls, That speak of thee ! — and thou art speaking there, Enchantress ! thine the genius, thine the spell, On the blank tablet that hath breathed a soul, And shed upon these walls this deathless bloom Of scenes, that he had gazed on with delight, When, arm in arm, he rambled forth with thee ! See ! where he stands, and looks upon that frame, Once eloquent with music's holiest spells, 58 LINES ON THE DEATH OF Now mute : — he stands, as though he hoped to hear The voice he loved ; — and who can tell, what songs Of joy, with their sad echoes, wound that heart ? Spirit of the Departed, smile on him ! He sleeps, — and thou art with him in his dreams ! — Fair, as when first he gazed upon thy charms ; — Kind, as when first his tale of love was breathed ; — And dear, as when, with joy that fathers feel, He blessed the mother of his unborn child ! His dream is of the days of early love, — And of his lovely bride : — of her, whose soul Was lofty, and claimed kindred with the great ; Whose heart was gentle ; whose strong mind was fixed On thoughts beseeming her high destiny ; Whose spirit held communion bright with heaven ; And thus along the walks of daily life Shed such a mild and tender light, as clouds, That float around the sun to catch his rays, Diffuse o'er earth, in evening's loveliest hues. Such is his happy dream ; — but hush ! — he moans, And starts, and gazes round with open eyes : But still his senses sleep ; — the spirit wakes, And Hope, and Fear, and Bliss, and Agony Are mingled in the vision ; — a strange hall Receives him ; lofty columns prop the roof ; And music summons to high festival ; He rushes from the board ; and suddenly THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 59 Stands where a thousand torches chase the night, Waving above a sable canopy : And there is one, who, in a well-known voice, Cries — " Welcome, Leopold, to Paradise !" And momently, as though he moved on wings, He stands in Eden's garden ; — all is bliss ! — Through pleasant walks the dreamer wanders on, Or, lingering, enjoys the breezy shade Of arbours, garlanded with many a flower, Bright as the colours of a sunset cloud, Or the soft cheek of woman, when her heart Is happy, and her features glow with love. Again a sudden dampness chills his soul, And deepening thunders in the gloom are heard, He gazes on a shuddering female form, While a deep voice is breathing awfully, — " In sorrow shalt thou bring thy children forth ?" — And who shall tell the terrors of that voice ? But still the senses sleep ; — the loud bells peal ; A song of gladness fills the echoing earth ; — " Joy, for an heir is born to England's throne !"— But then was heard a sound of muffled drums, And, as they cease, a scream of agony Rings through his soul, and bursts the bonds of sleep — Sweet Spirit, that he loved, oh comfort him ! — There is a blind old venerable Man, Whose cheek grief hath not clouded ; — and no tear 60 LINES ON THE DEATH OF Hath stained his sightless eye ball ; — good Old Man ! — He only doth not grieve ; — years have rolled by, Since on a daughter's death that old man gazed ; And the soul sunk, stunned with the heavy blow, In darkness — hopeless darkness : — a chill flash At times will lighten o'er that midnight gloom, In ghastly mockery; — then fade away ! Oh ! 'tis a thing of sadness, that the heart Even now can feel, to view that hollow cheek, And its unmeaning smile ; — to hear that laugh, — Mocking the agonies of all around ! — Yet is not the dark chamber comfortless ; He knows not Man, — and all beneath is passed For ever from his heart ; — but, like the star, O'er which a chilling cloud hangs dim, that soul, Shut out from Earth, enjoys its native Heaven. Oh, with what anguish would those pale lips writhe, And how distractedly those feeble hands Scatter the thin gray tresses, if one ray Shone on the midnight of that soul, and showed The solitude of earth ! — till now, one flower Still smiled, the hope of England's royal stem, And cheered the desert ! — All is loneliness ! — Oh God, in trouble we do call on thee ! Thou, who dost bid the lightning-bolt of wrath Oft minister to mercy, — and the storm, THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 61 That o'er the mountain-billow flings his voice, Combat the fiend, whose breath is pestilence ; — ■ Thou, by whose power, the passions and the sins Of Man, his wants and his adversities, All onward tend to Universal Good : — Father, in mercy look upon the earth, And change its mourning into songs of joy ! Even in the silence of this lonely hour The Hurricane above the Atlantic wave Spreads his black wings : — the sullen thunder-clouds Clash, and the red sun sinks with angry glare ; The cane-groves crash ; the lightnings are abroad ! And, like a troubled spirit, the dark stream Rolls wrathfully above the haunts of men ! Oh, what a scene shall morning's sun reveal ? Horror, and desolation, and despair, And silence, such as reigned within the camp Of that Assyrian army, through whose tents The Angel of the Lord in darkness walked ! Weep ! — for the wrath of God is over us ! 62 ODE TO FANCY. Oh Fancy, hither bend thy flight, Hither steer thy car of light, Tho' its rainbow colours flee Ere they have shone a moment on my sight ; Come Fancy, come and bring with thee The light-winged forms of air, that glance Upon the Poet's dizzy view, Which, when he waketh from his rapturous trance, No effort can renew, No tongue their beauty can declare, No thought conceive how wondrous fair ; Like the thin clouds, whose folds are drest With rose-light tints on summer eve, Their hues are changed, before the breast Distinctly can receive A settled thought of what they were, — She knows alone that they were fair ! Oh, Fancy, let such forms delight Thy votary's longing eye ; Or, if they may not meet my sight, ODE TO FANCY. 63 Come thou, tho' all the wings of night Around thy chariot fly ; Come, tho' dark Honour come with thee, And the pale fiend, distracted Fear, Unfold to my congealing ear His tale of mystery ! Yes ! I will listen, while his breath Tells of the dagger, on whose blade Still lingers the red stain of death, Tho' long the day since Murder laid Upon the deadly dirk his desperate grasp, And watched his victim's last faint grasp, While, with unshivering hand, he prest The dagger in the sleeper's breast ; Yes ! I will hark, though Fear may tell In piercing tone, the tales of hell — Will listen, Fancy, if thy faintest gleam Tinge the dark and dreadful theme ! Fancy, with thee I love to stray, With thee would seek the dungeon's gloom, Renounce for aye the visions gay That Pleasure's tints illume ; Would listen to the owlet's cry, Would hear the winds of winter sigh Amid the leafless trees ; Would hark the Spirit shrilly scream, Would view the meteor's boding beam, Would court thy most terrific dream, 64 ODE TO FANCY. Till my heart's blood did freeze ; Would, where the Alpine hunter fears to breathe, Lie down the tremulous avalanche beneath, If thy rich visions swam before mine eye ! Would launch the light skiff, where the wild waves sweep Down Niagara's dizzy steep, If thy angelic form were nigh ! If with thy hues the mountain-snows were bright, If thou didst tinge the wave with thy rich lines of light ! But sweeter, Fancy, is the trance, When thy hues of splendour glance On the dim and aching eye That weeps o'er sad reality ; Thy visions cheer the hapless breast, That, braving in unequal strife The dark and stormy sea of life, Sighs for the haven of its rest. Though Fortune o'er the scene may throw The wintry cloud of want and woe, Yet thou, Enchantress, thou canst fling The tints of visionary spring Upon thy votary's sight, And paint in hues divinely bright An after-season of delight. What, tho' they say thy magic hand Depicts the Future fair, ODE TO FANCY. G5 When suddenly the figures bland Fade into empty air, — That thou bid'st the blood-streaked eye Redden in feverish agony, — Yet is the man thy woes oppress Gifted with heightened happiness ; In rapture's hour his heart will melt With feelings by the throng unfelt ! 'Tis his, in phantom-worlds to live, 'Mong joys, more dear than earth can give ! And his are arbours, rainbow-hued, Where nought unholy may intrude ! His is an Eden of delight, For ever screened from vulgar sight ! The traveller thus, in Arab sands, Whose lips are parched, whose limbs are faint, Whose troubled thoughts for ever paint The tiger's spring, the Bedouin bands, Whose camel now, with faltering pace, Strives the burning path to trace, See in that wanderer's looks expressed The hopeless anguish of his breast ; — But now! mark! mark that start of joy — Mark how he strains his swollen eye ; He sees yon distant speck of green Shine circled with the Desert sea — F 66 ODE TO FANCY. Mark, mark, empictured in his mien, The flush of Hope, of Ecstacy : The fall and flash of waters near Delight the heart, and eye, and ear ! Now has his weary journey ceased, And, sheltered by the bowering palm, He spreads his simple feast ! Was ever bliss thus perfect known In scenes, where Luxury alone Had plumed the silken couch of ease, And fanned the air with pleasure's breeze ? But chiefly on the Poet's mind Thine influence is shed, His eye expatiates unconfined Upon thy vast expanse, He views with kindling glance Thy peopled scenes before him spread ! Then, Fancy, bid my page to gleam With some faint colouring from thy beam ; To thee the Poet's hopes belong, Bid then thy light illume my song ! I call thee by thy Collins' rage, By thy Warton's Gothic page, By thy Spenser's faerie slumbers, By thy Shakspeare's witching numbers ; — Or, Spirit, if, with partial ear, A later name thou lovest to hear, ODE TO FANCY. Then be the spell thy Southey's lay ; — Shed, Fancy, shed thy solemn ray ! Oh, move me far from Mirth's vain folly, To the haunts of Melancholy, Where Echoes, at the close of day, Oft talk of empires passed away ; — Come, like the maid that loves to weep On lone Parnassus' misty steep, When, in the silent time of night, She hovers o'er the Poet's sleep, And mingles with his slumbers deep Dreams of indefinite delight, That float with morning's gale along, Or live but in the breath of song ! — r — Then shall I view the air around, Haunted by many a spectral form, Shall hear the boding Spirit sound, Amid the howlings of the storm ; Shall tremble at the night-bird's cry, Drear prophetess of destiny; And, as the meteor's beams appal, Behold the coming funeral, Or view the ancient chieftain's lance With momentary lustre glance, As sitting in his cloudy car He thinks upon his days of war ! — And, when the moon, at middle night, With mild and melancholy ray, f 2 67 68 ODE TO FANCY. Streams over earth a sweeter light, Than ever soothed the flaunting day, Pale mourner ! I can half believe, That she for human woes doth grieve, Or, — for such dreams soon disappear — When thoughts more playful hover near, May deem her snowy splendour shed Upon the moat's moss-covered bed, To gild the dance of gentle fays, "Who sport beneath the holy blaze. Then shall the thoughts of other times Rouse me to try adventurous rhymes, And to the harp's deep music chaunt The story of some old romaunt ; Thus my rapt soul, with Gothic glories fraught, In Fancy's bower shall muse and court Poetic Thought. 1813. 69 SOLITUDE. Oh, what a lovely silent spot ! 'Mid such a scene the eremite would hope To build his lonely cot, Just where with easy slope The wooded mountain bends, Where the clear rill descends, Now hid the jutting rocks beneath, Now faintly sparkling on the eye, Itself concealed, its course we now descry By the long grass and blossomy heath, By the cowslip's saffron hue, By the violet's clouded blue, Beside its fostering bed In waste profusion spread ; Its widening wave at distance now we hail, Where bright, and blue, and broad, it rolls along the vale, — At Spring's return the earth is glad, And yet to me, at this lone hour. 70 SOLITUDE. The wood-dove's note from yonder natural bower, Though winning sweet, is sad ; — Calmly the cool wind heaves The elm's broad boughs, whose shadows seem Like some deep vault below the stream : — The melancholy beech still grieves, As in the scattering gale are shed Her red and wrinkled leaves : — And, from the yew, by yon forgotten grave, Hark! the lone robin mourning o'er the dead. Spirit, by whom man's spirit is subdued, Thou, that, mid awful Nature's quietude, Dost on the green earth breathe a tenderer hue, On the reposing skies a darker blue ; Spirit, whate'er thy name, No other hymn than thine Shall tremble from the Clarshec's* frame, Whose strings, neglected long, Again shall echo to the song, Shall hail the inspiring nymph, whose holy power Bfds wisdom and delight to bless the lonely hour. — See where, most mild, most sad, The Goddess, on her mountain throne Of rocks, with many-coloured lichens clad, * The Irish harp. SOLITUDE. 71 Is soothed by gurgling waters near, Or song of sky-lark wild and clear, Or music's mellow tone : The scarce-heard hum of distant strife Breaks not the consecrated rest, The sabbath quiet of that breast, Unruffled by the woes, above the mirth of life ; Awful thoughts for ever roll, Shadowing the silent soul, Like the twilight tall rocks throw Far into the vale below : — Here Genius, in fantastic trance, Enjoys his wildest reverie, Or pores with serious eye Upon some old romance, Till all the pomp of chivalry, The vizor quaint of armed knight, And stately dame, and tournay bright, Are present to his glance. And Fancy here delights to stray, And shed around her smiles serene, Not those alone that for the Poet play, — Too grandly, too divinely bright, They pain with luxury of light ! Here she exerts a gentler sway, And gives to Happiness the tranquil scene ; She breathes with soft control 72 SOLITUDE. An holy sense of sobered joy, And sorrows, that no more annoy, Are pleasant to the soul : — The breast, that throbbed before too much At Sorrow's wound, at Pleasure's touch, Indulging here in calm repose No change of shifting passions knows ; Thus, when the winds, with wanton play, Among the aspin's branches stray, The twinkling leaves are seen Give to the light their lively gray, But when the breezes die away, They smile in softest green : — Oft, in that quiet silence of the breast, When passions pause, and all is peace within, Feelings awake, and thoughts that will not rest Of Heaven and Man, — of Holiness and Sin ; — Like thunders, o'er the evening vale that roll, There comes a voice of more than mortal birth, Its accents are not of the earth — 'Tis God that speaketh to the Soul ! Who hath not felt, in some lone hour, Feelings, sublimely sad, Steal o'er his spirit with resistless power ? Go seek that man among the Bad, Go seek him where the heartless throng In worse than mirth the hours prolong ! SOLITUDE. 73 Yet will there come an hour to him, When anguish in his breast shall wake, And that bright eye-ball — weak and dim, Gazing on former days shall ache ; — When Solitude bids phantoms drear Of raptures, now no longer dear, In gloomy ghastliness appear; — When visions rise of errors past — Of prospects foully overcast — Of Passion's unresisted rage — Of Youth, that thought not upon Age — Of earthly hopes, too fondly nursed, That caught the giddy eye at first, But, like the flowers of Syrian sands, That crumbled in the closing hands. — Blame not the silent monitress That thus the bosom would address — — Blame not the Guardian Spirit sent To call the guilty to repent — Oh blame not her, whose holy breath Inspires with hopes from heaven the soul that starts at death ! Are we indeed in solitude alone ? Are there not Spirits hovering near The lonely mind to cheer, And breathe into the heart a holy tone ? Hath not the Poet heard ; with ear entranced, 74 SOLITUDE. As, by some devious stream, He lay in strange romantic dream, Hath not he heard his harp faint-echoing, As if an angel's hand had glanced Along its every string ? Have not the Dead, in such an hour as this, Bent from their homes of bliss, To tell the mourner that they do not sleep Within the grave's unbroken gloom, The damp, dull silence of the tomb, Oh ! come they not from heaven, to soothe the hearts that weep ? In such an hour the Prophet's tone hath woke On mortal's hallowed lips, and on the eye Visions of other days have broke, Of days, that slumber yet in deep futurity ; Such sights and sounds as met his eye and ear, When slept in Patmos' isle the solitary Seer. Say not, that it is solitude, When stands in loneliness the Good Amid surrounding enemies — When Pain, and W'oe, and Malice rise, When Tyranny hath fixed his fate, Even then, in that eventful hour, Shall Virtue triumph most, and Power Shall envy him she still must hate ! SOLITUDE. 75 — Was there, when fearless Sidney fell, No angel form to guard his cell ? And when around the tyrant's throne The courtly sons of flattery stood, Oh, saw he then their pomp alone ? — Dwelt not his ear on Sidney's groan ? Gazed not his eye on Sidney's blood ? — Oh heard he not — though music's breath, Though rapture's voice his soul address — Oh heard he not a voice of death, And all was loneliness — But, Sidney, there were those who stood Around to guard thy solitude ; Yes ! martyr, there are thoughts of healing, That on thy wounded spirit gleam, And many a proud and patriot feeling Is mingling with thy dream ; Angelic hosts surround thee, and forbid The dew of selfish fear thine eye to cloud ; Unseen they stand, as when, his foes amid, Elisha woke, and seemed to Man's weak gaze Alone, till bursting from the tempest's shroud, With cars and arms of fire his seraph guardians blaze.* Oh thou, whose influence breathes through solitude, * II. Kings, chap. vi. verses 15-— 17. 76 SOLITUDE. Spirit, whate'er thy name, With all thy warmth inflame A heart that long, in no unholy mood, The loveliness of Nature's charms hath wooed ; Long with no idle gaze mine eye hath viewed The beauteous scene of earth, and air, and sky, But Wisdom lives in all that I descry ; — All that I hear is speaking to my breast, The thunder's crash, the lark's enlivening lay, All Nature's sights and sounds, or sad or gay, Dwell in my soul indelibly imprest : And now the view of yonder ruinous tower, Whose fissured walls admit the moon's cold beams, Sheds on my bosom melancholy dreams, Most suited to the sober hour, — Mine eye beholds those early days, When shining in the pride of Power, They burst upon the gaze ; — But soon, like Man, the turret falls, The pilgrim mourns beneath its walls, Sees o'er its strength the wild-flower rise, Hears from its heights the night-bird's cries ; — But from this lonely dream of earth, What feelings spring to sudden birth ; No more the pilgrim looks beneath, For him new hopes, new raptures breathe, FRAGMENT. 77 The soul beholds new worlds before it rise, Feels its own powers, and communes with the skies ! 1814. TO FRAGMENT. * * * And thou hast many a medicine for grief ! — The silent volume on my table placed, And in some favourite page the myrtle-leaf, Or the light line, along the margin traced With pencil touches easily effaced : Artless in truth, yet hast thou many an art, And many a quiet subterfuge of taste, To wile and to win home a wandering heart, That, truant far and wide, still loves the better part ! 78 REVERIE.* He serves the Muses erringly and ill, Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive. Oh that my mind were equal to fulfil The comprehensive mandate which they give : Vain aspiration of an earnest will ! Wordsworth. PART I. What gentle murmur hath disturbed the air ? Did I not feel upon my cheek a breath, Silent, and soft, as of an angel's wing ! — They come — in midnight visitings they come — Those forms, that hover o'er the poet's couch, What time he gazes with most earnest eye, And long-suspended breath, lest from his view The imaged objects of idolatry Should fade ! I heard — even now I hear — a voice Low, yet most clear ; I felt — even now I feel — Mysterious breathings, and the soul obeys * Written in 1815. REVERIE. 79 In unresisting motion, when the Power Of Song makes felt her holy influence. Hast thou beheld the obedient march of waves, The appointed flow, the regulated fall, The rise, and lapse alternate ? even as soon Shall they rebel against the silent maid, Who walks in joy among the company Of stars, and smiles enchantment on the deep, As poet struggle with the awful Power That wakes the slumbering spirit into song, As Man forbid the soul to undulate Through all its depths what time the breath of Heaven Moves o'er the darkness : — Spoke there not a voice — And Chaos heard ? — " Let there be light," and light Was over air and earth and on the deep. And such a voice was heard on Chebar's banks,* Loud as the rushing of a thousand streams, And, in stupendous visionry, were seen Cloud piled on cloud, as when the hand of God Makes calm the tempest — cloud on cloud uprolled, And amber fire within, and, trembling through, Uncertain flashes of a throne dim-seen, Strange brightness of what seemed the countenance Of Him who sate thereon : while, Spirit-like, * Ezekiel, chap. i. verses 3, 26, 28. 80 REVERIE. Lone emblem of the Glory Unrevealed, Afar, in silent heaven, the rainbow woke. Angelic Voice and Vision, oft of old Vouchsafed to prophet, and prophetic bard ! Oh for one breath of that undying Spirit ! Oh for one ray of that empyreal light ! For me, and such as I am, humbler lay Is more appropriate. Not to me was given Empyreal impulse, — yet the ardent mind Brooks not inglorious silence, yet my cares Are often solaced by some lighter Muse. When sorrow pressed me — when the heavy hand Of sickness weighed on the dejected mind, And saddened the exulting time of youth With the dim eye and feeble foot of age ; When Hope's reviving glow with Health returned, Some Spirit still was near to whisper song, A form that, angel-like, hung o'er my bed Of pain, to reconcile the soul to death, And, angel-like, illumes my brighter hours. What hour more fitting for such visitant, Than when the silence of the night hath lulled All care to rest, — the stir of intercourse, The fretting bustle — all that jarring clashed To drown the music of the mind, hath ceased ? REVERIE. 81 • What scene more suited to her agency Can'st thou conceive? — Round my broad window's arch The ivy's wreaths are wound, and through the frame A few short shoots find unforbidden way ; The woodbine's pillared blossom in the breeze Moves slowly, and upon the moonlight ground The shadow casts an ever-varying stain ; — The sound of waters, too, is here, — that stream, Whose windings long have led my truant feet, Soothes with its ceaseless murmur, — opposite My window is a poplar, all whose leaves Flutter most musical ; — the moonshine there Plays strange vagaries, — now a flood of light Spreads like a sheet of snow along the plain, — Now all is darkness, save that through the boughs On the green circle, like a summer shower Slow falling from unagitated leaves, Some glancing drops of light are checkering still ; — Now is the ivy coloured with the beams, — Now on my floor they lie in quietness, — Now float with mazy flow most restlessly, — At rest, or quivering, still how beautiful ! — Like Fancy sporting with the poet's soul ! They come — in midnight visitings they come — But not such forms as in the calm of night Seek the soft twilight of the gentle moon ! — What form is yonder ? — never hath the dream G 82 REVERIE. Of night been bodied in a wilder shape ! Stern is his brow, and gloomy, and his height Is as the shadow on the burial ground, When the moon's light upon some sculptured form In cold reflection lies ! — A heavy cloud, And red, as though from steaming vales of blood Exhaled, o'ershades him with its canopy ! Whither, sad Spirit ! whither would'st thou haste ? A wavering melancholy fire hath lit Thine eye ; thy voice is dreary as the fear, That wakes the wounded warrior from his trance, When the black vulture from her heavy wing Flaps on his brow the drops of stiffening gore, Or the steed dying falls, a weary weight, On his bruised body. Whither would'st thou lead, Dark Spirit, whither ? To that fatal field, Where moonlight gleams on many a broken helm, On many a shieldless warrior, o'er whose limbs The trembling hand of love had linked the mail, Alas in vain ? — the supple limbs of youth, And manhood's sinewy strength, and rigid age, Together lie : — the boy, whose hands with blood Were never stained before, upon whose lip The mother's kiss was ominously pressed ; — The man, alive to every tenderest thought, Who cherished every fire-side charity; — And he, who, bending with the weight of years, Felt the sword heavy in his straining hand, REVERIE. 83 Who had outlived the social sympathies That link us to our kind — here, side by side, Sleep silent : he, who shrunk at every sound, Who throbbed in terror for a worthless life, Lies like a brother with the hopeless man, Who desperately dared in scorn of death :— The brave man in convulsing agony Hath grasped, andholds in death the hireling's hand:— — He, who was wont to calculate each chance, To measure out each probability, Behold him now extended on the earth, Near that robuster frame, whose tenant soul Flashed rapid in the energetic eye, Whose thoughts were scarce imagined, ere they sprang Forth-shaped in instant action : — here lies one, Whose soul was vexed by Passion's every gust, And like the light leaf trembled: — gaze again, Look on the mutilated hand, that still Clings to the sword unconscious ; — milder man Than he, whose mutilated hand lies there, Breathes not; — each passion that rebelled was hushed; So placid was his brow, so mild his eye, It seemed no pow T er could break the quiet there, Till, in the agony of tenderness, As his wife hung upon his bending neck, And lengthened out in sobs that last embrace, He could not look upon her countenance, And the big tear he struggled to repress g2 84 REVERIE. Fell on the rosy infant's cheek, who smiled At the unusual plume, and with stretched hand Half drew the shining falchion from its sheath, Then clung in mimic terror to his sire : — — He parted: — soon the dewy breeze of morn, The wild bird's carol and the wild-flower's breath, And the blue hills, emerging from the sea Of mists, that bathed all night their pinnacles, Infused serenity : — and, as he past The funeral-ground, and heard the Sabbath bell Peal its long solemn sound, be-sure he thought That with his fathers, in the family -grave, His bones would moulder, and the thought was sweet Alas ! ere long the soldier's hasty hand Shall shape his burial-place, and the short prayer Be muttered gracelessly above his grave ! — His was not what the great of earth would deem A happy life ; yet what is happiness, If he who by his daily labour buys His children's daily food, who feels no thought Repine against his lot, if such a man Thou deem'st not happy, what is happiness ? — His death was it not happy? though he came The proud assertor of an evil cause, He came self-justified : the patriot's glow Illumed his cheek in life's last agony ! Fallen warrior, there are those that weep for thee ! Aye, there is one who, in her daily prayer, REVERIE. 85 Leaves not the absent soldier's name forgot — There is an eye that, as each passing cloud Obscures the air, will shape it to thy form ; And, when she thinks on thee, if the chill breeze Roll the dry vine-leaf in its hurrying whirl, Will start as tho' it were thy courser's hoofs *, Oh ! she hath often from the cradle snatched Her dreaming child, and hushed its little plaints, Soothing him with the tale of thy return, And rushed to show the infant to his sire, Then laid it rudely by, and bitterly Wept when she saw another face than thine. — Kings of Earth, Whose is the crime, if Man should abdicate His better nature ? — Statesmen, whose the crime, If, uninstructed, he should rise in wrath, And rush with impulse irresistible, Right onward to your ruin and his own ? — Have you not blotted from his memory All sense of justice, when your shameless deeds Confused each rule and ordinance of right ? Have you not drunk the cup of blasphemy ? Have you not sold, in impious merchandize, Slaves, and the Souls of Men ? — 86 REVERIE. Thou wert alone, Thou, England, like some hill, whose lofty brows Retain at eve, and joyously effuse The light, that loves to lie and linger there : — Only with thee Religion found a home, Only with thee did Liberty repose ! REVERIE. 87 PART II. il Woe to the Guilty Land ! The palmer-worm Shall waste her harvests ! Like an evening cloud The locust-swarms shall rise, and where they leave The desolated vale, the canker-worm Shall creep. A few thin ears shall still remain Of all that Summer promised : there the slug Shall batten, there the caterpiller crawl, And on the blighted grain shall insect tribes Leave their cold egg, and perish : — Wake and weep, Wake, Drunkards, from your dream! Is this an hour To pledge the wine-cup ? — in your land the vine Hath withered ! — on your hills the cedar dies, And foreign arms are gleaming to the sun — Wake, Drunkards, wake !" — 'Twas thus the Prophet spoke, And they obeyed not. When hath Man obeyed The voice of warning ? — Though no prophet called Unhappy France, though on her palace-wall No hand, dim-seen, inscribed the words of doom, As in old Babylon, she might have known What fate would follow, when she stretched her arms Impatient for the tyrant, — might have heard, 88 REVERIE. In true anticipation, every shriek, That soon must ring throughout her ravaged realms ;- She might have heard the rush of soldiery, Numberless as the atoms, that the wind Drifts in the stormy desart, when some ribbed And rifted hill of sand is whirled along — She might have heard the warriors of the Don And Dwina, shouting forth their strange hurra, Screaming in sunny vales the dissonance The northern peasant hears, when midnight storms Shake his rude hut, and from the crashing roof The whirlwind tears the rushy covering ! — Woe to the land where Prussia's plunderers come ! Behind their path the blaze of cottages Shall shine, a beacon to the thousand hordes Afar on Danube's banks ! Woe to the land, Where England comes in anger ! Weep, ye wives, The cross of blood is streaming in the sky ! Weep, daughters, weep, for brand and bayonet Are sparkling in the sunbeam ! — Oh ! what joy Is thine, green daughter of the western star, Ireland, my country, oh ! what joy is thine ! What language shall not sing thy Wellington, While the fond poet deems the deathless name Shall give his numbers immortality ? — * * * * Eternal Spirit, thou who promisest REVERIE. 89 That, when some few are gathered in thy name, Thou art amidst them ! that the humble prayer Is not unheard by thee, — didst thou not gaze With favour, when the climes of half the world, Moved with one impulse, sent their children forth To dash the tyrant from his tainted throne ? — — Strange were the offerings on that Sabbath-day, And stern the priests, who watched the sacrifice On Waterloo's red field ! — for choral hymn Was heard the cannon's shock, — black incensesteamed Against the cloudy heaven ! proud warriors there, For whom the trumpet pealed a matin-note, Lie cold, and cannot hear the screams and shrieks, That shock the ear of night — and cannot hear The shout of England's pride, of Prussia's joy ! — Never from Indian island, lately taught The Christian's happy creed, where, underneath The grove's cool boughs, meet many a family On Sabbath eve, arose a hymn more sweet To claim the ear of Heaven, than from that field Of blood, when, gazing on the piles of dead, The fainting soldier sighed his gratitude ! — On what a scene that morning Sun arose ! — Struggling through heavy mists, his watery beams Shone coldly on that fated plain, and gleamed On groves, whose boughs, rent by the midnight storm, All bare of beauty lay j — from weary bed 90 REVERIE. The warrior started, on whose fretting ear All night the voices of the changing winds, The shivering of branches, and the calls Of sentinel from foreign bivouac, Came ceaseless, often with that lulling sound, Which brings the hope of sleep, in mockery, To him who fain in sleep would lose the thoughts, The anxious thoughts, that crowd upon his soul ; — Morn dawns — the trance of sleep is gone, — what joy Welcomes the rising morn ! what eloquence Of lip, and eye, and gesture ! There were those, Who in the battle lived a thousand lives, If life were measured by the warrior's joy ; — Now, now the tide tumultuous rolls along, Swift as the clouds in winter's chilling night, That, hurrying onward, with their dusky folds Darken the moon, — swift as their shadows sweep Along a plain of snow or level lake ! — Look, look how rapidly yon coursers press Up thro' those shrouds of smoke : — at times you hear The shouting riders, when the glancing hoof Bounds light on softer earth — at times you see, When the breeze wafts aside the battle-cloud, The dark brow guarded by the shadowy helm, The cuirass sparkling on the warrior's breast, The long lance levelled in the steady hand ; And oft, before the lancers' charging lines, The blue sword's momentary gleams are seen REVERIE. 91 In horizontal whirl of rapid light, Or downward ray direct ; — with thundering tramp The courser presses on ; — " Revenge — Revenge !" Heard you that wild scream — Brunswick's battle- shout ? Stern Mourners ! oh, how fearfully avenged ! See, where they meet — the pride of England meets The veteran strength of France — and who shall tell The tidings of such meeting ? who shall live To say, ' 5 My brethren perished by my side ?" — Proudly the Eagle, with exulting wing, Hath revelled in the tempest ; — will he shrink From this day's storm ? untrembling we have viewed His proudest nights, and shall we tremble now ? — Loud o'er the dinning field, like battle-whoop Heard in some Indian vale, the hordes of France Shout in mad revelry their leader's name. They charge — they shrink — they fly ! — With bolder sweep Another charge is made ; — again they shrink — And yet another dash — Ha! there they stand, An overpowering force— with frantic shout The groves of Hougomont ring wildly ! — Hark, Again the cry of Britain ! — From that wood How few shall fly ! — But yonder see La-Haye, Where, black with blood, the heavy tri-color Flaps o'er the shattered homestead sullenly. Still, still, wave after tempest-driven wave, 92 REVERIE. The gloomy hosts of France pour ceaselessly ; Wave, after broken wave, they burst upon Our serried squares impenetrable still ! On what a scene the westering sun sinks down! — The doubtful battle still unfixed — the rage Of France — the force of England. — Still they strive, Till now the angel of the evening star Sheds vainly upon earth his smile of peace, And from her throne in heaven the summer moon Shines in her silent beauty. She beholds A strange and troubled scene. I will not tell The fatal flight of France — I will not pause To gaze on Blucher : — Who hath not received, With joy, that mocks the poet's utterance, The happy tale ? — Yet, in the days to come, When joy is calm, and triumph, like a dream, In mellowed brightness, soothes the fantasy, Some future Surrey to the harp shall tell The moonlight meeting, when the Prussian chief, Who veiled the furrowed brow and hoary hair ' With the accustomed helm, in joy of heart Greeted victorious Wellesley. — 'Twas an hour Of proudest triumph. Centuries have waned, And, through their fading shadows, none may mark Like glory o'er the mournful record gleam ! Fair orb of night, in what calm majesty Thou sailest onward in thy quiet course ! REVERIE. 93 Like waves, that ripple o'er a summer sea, The soft clouds glide before thee ; many an eye In joy beholds thy course ; thy silent beams Fall on the virgin's cheek, who, blushingly, Leans o'er the lofty casement, in whose eye The warm tear glistens, as the lover's song Dies gradually upon her doating ear — Ob, with what pleasure she beholds thy beams ! — But there are those, who with a wilder joy Hail thee ! — but there are those who curse thy light! — Fly, D'Erlon, fly ! — Last eve the sable flag Shadowed thy host — fly ! fly ! revenge is near, And Blucher's bloody brand ! Fallen Emperor ! Home from the battle-field who welcomes thee ? And where be they, who from thine iron rock Hailed thee? — oh where thy destined triumphs now ? " Joy in Grenoble's streets, in Lyons Joy, Joy — in the purple halls of Paris, Joy ! Again the Eagle gazes on the sun !" Such were the songs that shook thy capital; — Joy that no good heart echoed ! — frantic joy — A momentary madness, that the soul Shrinks in the lonely hour to recognize ! Triumphant shouts of ruffian revelry, Heard, like the cannon's roll, at evening hour, By some devoted town, more deep, more dread, Amid the silence of surrounding woe ! 94 REVERIE. PART III. Gaze on the human frame ! — the active foot — The unwearied hand — the eye intelligent — The powers and motions — the unceasing breath — The impulse, the resistance, — each to each Proportioned, — all dependent upon all, — All fearfully, all wonderfully made ! — — But view the soul, — it hath been rightly called A world within, — an agitated world, Where Passions, Prejudices, Weaknesses, Bold Aspirations, Terrors tremulous Hold restless conflict, warring ceaselessly, Even like the outer earth ; aspiring Hope, With pinions quivering, longs to bathe in heaven ; Lo ! Fear, unsteady, hopeless of support, His dim eye casts upon a deeper gulf, That indistinctly swims before his sight ; A thousand, thousand phantoms more are there, That, shifting, mock the pencil which would range Their shadowy groups ; — such is the human soul, And such the inmates who hold empire there ! — In each man's bosom thus there lies a world, All peopled with the same inhabitants, REVERIE. 95 Each shining with its own peculiar light, Each with its own peculiar atmosphere. — Oh, I could dwell upon this fond conceit, Till lost in contemplation. One man's soul Commands respect, and " marks him from mankind." Fair is the promise of his opening youth, Fortune hath garlanded his glorious brow ; He stands alone : — the Desart Pyramid, Warred on in vain by every wind of heaven, That frowned through ages, and through ages more Shall frown defiance to the lightning's bolt, Seems not to press more proudly on its base. — Where stands this mighty man ? Do kings still bend The humbled knee, or, with vain show of strength, Send armies to their doom ? Do senates still, With mockery of counsel, legalize Slavish submission to this lord of earth ? Where stands he ? — All have heard the monstrous tale I The man, who gazed in horror on his crimes, Whose daily supplication for his son, Forced to the tyrant's wars, came to the ear Of heaven, as though it were in truth a curse Upon the tyrant ; he, even he, half grieves, As, dazzled with the glory, he looks back On former days, and sees the heavy doom That righteously awaits the man of blood ! — 96 REVERIE. — From thy sad place of former banishment, Didst thou not gaze at times upon the sea ? How many a bark upon the barren wave Hath past, and left no trace, — how many a ball Hath hissed along the waters, — oh, how oft Hath Man, 'gainst Man arrayed, encountered here In hope of glory I All are now forgot, — The dweller of the neighbouring coasts, no more, Can hold their deeds in memory, than the eye Rest on the cloud, or colour, that is past, Or these still waves retain the imaged form, While, by some distant shore, the gallant bark On other waters flings its heavy shade ! — Time was — in dateless years — when spectral eve Sent shadowy accusers from dark realms ; And at calm dead of night, tyrants, appalled, Started and shrieked, lashed by avenging dreams ; And when the sunlight came, the joyous sun Was, to the sickly and distracted sense, The haunt of demons, and his living light Seemed the hot blazes of the penal fire ; ? Twas said that Furies o'er the bed of sleep Watched with red eye, and, from the throbbing brow Drank with delight the dew that agony Forced forth ; — but this, it seems, is fable all ! — — Hath not Philosophy disproved a God ? Ere yet the chymist called the bolt from heaven, REVERIE. 97 We spoke of Spirits governing its beam, — Ere yet he learned to part and analyse, The rock, we deemed some more than human power Had planted it in ocean, — till he stirred The muscles of the dead with mimic breath, And called the cold convulsion life, we deemed That Heaven alone could bid the dry bones shake ! — But joy to Man ! progressive centuries Have erred, and Wisdom now at length appears — And, lo ! the Goddess ! not with brow austere, Features that tell of silent toil, and locks Laurelled, as erst in the Athenian Schools ; — Nor yet with garment symboled o'er with stars, And signs, and talismans, as in the halls Of parent Egypt ; not with pensive eye, And dim, as though 't were wearied from its watch Through the long night, what time, to shepherd-tribes Of fair Chaldsea, she had imaged forth The host of Heaven, and mapped their mazy march, While the bright dew on her tiara'd brow, And the cold moonlight on her pallid face, And the loose wandering of her heavy hair, As the breeze lifted the restraining bands, And the slow motion of the graceful stole, When with her jewelled wand she traced the line Of milky light — all gave a sober air Of mild solemnity. She comes not now, Like that tall matron, on whose sunnv cheek 98 REVERIE. The smile of pleasure shone, when over earth She yoked her cloudy chariot to the breeze, And scattered blessings with a bounteous hand, While young Triptolemus, with flushing face, And animated eye, revealed his love, And playfully amid her yellow locks Wreathed the gay poppy's flowers, and round her brow The green and golden wheat ! How beautiful Oh Goddess, the calm splendour of thy brow, As flowing lightnings tinge with silent gleam Earth's coronal of love ! Hath Wisdom robed Her form with mystery ? — as when Athens bowed, At old Eleusis' venerable shrine, The suppliant knee, while cymbal clashed, and song Re-echoed, and, with pomp of sacrifice, The victims bled to pale Persephone, Till all was perfected ; — then came a pause, And stop of sound most sudden, and the step Of votaries falling on the earth so soft, That not an echo caught the still small sound, As sad they entered the interior vault ; And not a stir was heard among the crowd, Till from the fane, with sadness in their looks, The venerable sages issued forth, Burthened with thoughts they never may reveal ! REVERIE. 99 PART IV. Philosophers, anatomists of soul, Ye have displayed a fearful spectacle, The human heart exposed in nakedness ! Come, gaze upon a kindred sight of woe ; A hideous phantom,— from the bloated limb Dull drops the heavy flesh, — the bloodless vein Shrinks, — and the long cold arm, so ghastly white, Strikes with damp rattle on the bony thigh ; A sickly green hath rusted on the brow, As though 't were borrowed from the charnel stone ; And the dry dust is on the spider's web, That shades the vacant dwelling of the eye ; A few thin locks still linger on the brow, And the chill breeze will sometimes shake those locks, With something not unlike the stir of life, More fearful than the fearful calm beneath ! Well may'st thou shudder now, — but, if that frame Should move, — if from his lonely prison-place, By old Seville, or where Toledo taught Black secrets, started some foul fiend, whose task It is, to breathe around the vaulted grave The dewy dampness, that the mouldwarp loves, — h2 100 REVERIE. To bathe the fungus with the clammy drop, That oozes from the dead decaying flesh, — To feed in silence the sepulchral lamp ; What, if, o'erwearied with the tedious task, He loosed the ligaments that held him there, And, bursting thro' the sepulchre's cold clasps, He bathed his black wings in the moonlight sea, And flinging round his path a meteor-shower, And pouring on the gale his stormy voice, Stained with his dusky presence the blue night ; — What, if he breathed himself into that frame, Swelled out those limbs to giant vastitude, Gave animation to the morbid mass, Lit the deserted fortress of the eye, And stalked 'mong men, and called upon the tribes, That gazed in awe, to bow before his might, And conquering, and to conquer, bent his course, And roused a thousand brother-fiends to share The spoil, and glory in the gloomy view ! — Even such a Spirit over Earth has passed, Seared with his shadow the green earth, and dimmed Heaven's light above. " Hail, Revolution, hail ! All hail, redeeming Spirit !" — shout and song, The ceaseless voice of maddening multitudes Rung the acclaim ! Thro' courts, through cottages, That Spirit stalked. The temple's sanctuary Is foul, — the Christian altar stained with blood ! REVERIE. 101 The lovely novice-nun, whose lingering ear Dwelt on the evening hymn, who half believed, As through the chapel's painted panes she viewed The slow-descending sun, that from his orb On some slant beam angelic psalmists come To join the hymns of earth : — oh ! she hath shrunk To feel the ruffian's hand fling back her veil, To see the face that scorned her agonies, To hear the screams, and shouts, and heavier sobs, Till sight, and sense, and feeling past away ; At length she wakens from that utter trance Never to smile again ; and fears to pray ; And hates herself for her unworthiness ! Along the silent walks of studious men That fiend hath past. No more the winding wave Recalls to memory those enchanting times, When, on Diana's cheek the breeze of dawn Breathed rosy colouring, as with buskined foot The graceful huntress past thro' pearly dew, And, in the groves of Delos, roused the lark To greet her brother's beam ; — no more the bard Pours songs to Venus, and deludes his heart With the fond fiction ! — Gods, whom Greece adored, Farewell ! farewell the everlasting page Of Homer ! Dreams of Sophocles, farewell ! Wise men proscribe your influence, yet be sure 102 REVERIE. That not in vain that influence hath been breathed; Renounce more soon, my friend, the lucid page Of old Eudoxus, fling away the book Where Newton's spirit lives,— renounce more soon The search of nature through her hidden walks, Than the bard's spiritual breathings ; — they will yield A calm, sweet temper, that delights to please, And can enjoy the pleasure it imparts ! — But if thy secret bosom hath rejoiced At its own grand conceptions, if the flow Of music, heard at twilight-time, hath waked Feelings, not much unlike its varying tones, To thee I need not tell, what added strength Will nerve the plume, that seeks with elder bards Olympus high, and bathes in Castaly ; — Oh ! for such wisdom would'st thou not renounce The sophist's jarring sounds, and view in scorn The dreams that France hath called Philosophy ? Would'st thou not gaze in wonder and contempt, Like the Peruvian, when, in Cusco's fane, The white-robed priest flung down the offerings Of flowers and fruitage, and, with bitter voice, Called on the savage man to bend his knee To sculptured stone, and in prostration fall Before the graven work of human hands, While through the open roof the mid-day sun Shone visible a God, and with the blaze Of brightness mocked the taper's sickening ray ! REVERIE. 103 Spirit of Heaven, undying Poetry, Effluence divine ! for by too high a name I cannot call thee, — ere the ocean rolled Round Earth, ere yet the dewy light serene Streamed from the silent fountains of the East, To fill the urns of morning, thou didst breathe, And, musing near the secret seat of God, Wert throned o'er Angels ! thou alone could'st look On the Eternal Glory ; till thy voice Was heard amid the halls of heaven, no breath Disturbed the awful silence ! Cherubim Gazed on thy winning looks, and hung in trance Of wonder, when thy lonely warblings came, Sweet as all instruments, that after-art Of angel or of man hath fashioned forth. —Spirit of Heaven, didst thou not company The great Creator ? — thou didst see the sun Rise like a giant from the chambering wave, And, when he sank behind the new- formed hills, Shrined in a purple cloud, wert thou not there, Smiling in gladness from some shadowy knoll Of larch, or graceful cedar, and at times Viewing the stream that wound below in light, And shewed upon its breast the imaged heaven, And all those shades, which men in after-days Liken to trees, and barks, and battlements, And all seemed good to thee ? — wert thou not near, When first the starting sod awoke to life, 104 REVERIE. And Man arose in grandeur ? — Thou didst weep His fall from Eden, and in saddest hour Thou wert not absent. From the peopled ark Thy voice arose : — the tribes of air and earth Forgot their fears of the increasing wave, When, from thy throne within the human heart, Breathed slow the evening-psalm, ere yet the Dove Roamed o'er the watery waste with weary wing ! Spirit of Heaven, thy first best song on earth Was Gratitude ! Thy first best gift to man The Charities— Love, in whose full eye gleams The April-tear ; — all dear Domestic Joys, That sweetly smile in the secluded bowers Of Innocence ! Thy presence hath illumed The Temple ! With the Prophets Thou hast walked, Inspiring ! — oh ! how seldom hast thou found A worthy residence ! — the world receives Thy holiest emanations with cold heart ; The bosom, where, as in a sanctuary, Thy altar shines, with its own grossness dims The blaze, or, faint with the " excess of light," Thy votary sinks, and in a long repose Would rest the wearied soul : how many a one Insults thy presence, forcing thee to join The haunts of riot and of revelry, Yet, when the voice of Eloquence in vain Would rouse a sinking people to the sense Of shame, then, Spirit, thou dost deeply move REVERIE. 105 The soul ! — oh, breathe, as with thy Milton's voice, And paint to nations, sunk in sloth and sleep, The virtues of their fathers ! let thy song Come like the language of a better world, Like fancied tones, that soothe the musing bard When passions slumber, and serenity Breathes softly, as the gale on summer's eve. Fling images of love, as fair as those That, from the bosom of the - deep, allure The mariner, presenting to his eye The hills his little feet were taught to climb, The valley where he lived, the pillared smoke That shines in the evening sun, from the low roof Where dwell his children and deserted wife ! I may not venture on such theme : I feel My many weaknesses ! a little while Repose, my Harp, in silence ! We have waked Numbers too lofty. Rest we here awhile ! 1815. • 106 THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC* Lonely was the blossoming Of the sad unwelcomed Spring ; And Man, the slave of passions blind and brute, A wanderer in a world where all was mute. Sound for the ear, or symbol for the heart Was none ; and Music was a later birth — The thoughts, we find no language to impart, Die ; — and thus Love was dying from the earth. Then of the Heavenly was there a revealing, That harmonized the chaos of Man's breast ; Above — around — within — the hidden feeling Found language — Music is but Love expressed. The nightingale in every rich love-note To Man speaks love ; and, when the vexed wind rushes Through moaning forests, Man's mind is afloat In the wild symphony. The liquid gushes * These lines were written from imperfect recollection of a German poem, introductory to a piece of music of Spohr's. THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC. 107 Of the thin tinkling rivulet — the tone Of Zephyrus, that whispers Flowers half-blown, Tempting the lingerers to dare the May — Do they not with them wile Man's heart away? And oft, as in a car of fire, elate The soul ascends, on Music's wings, in gleams Of momentary triumph, to Heaven's gate — A happy wanderer in the world of dreams ! Spell, that soothest, elevatest ! Language of the land unknown ! Music, earliest charm and latest, In gladness and in gladness gone ! Shrieking in his mother's arms Infant passions vex the child : — Murmur low the lulling charms, Pain is soothed and reconciled. Magic mystery of numbers, Thine to soothe away, and lighten Grief ! — and thine the cradled slumbers With thy dreams of gold to brighten ! To the dance ! — to the dance ! — 'tis the summer-time of life And Music invites — to the dance — to the dance- Old age has its sorrows, and manhood its strife, Care darkens the forehead, dispirits the glance. 108 THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC. For the weary hath Music its accents of healing ; But in youth what a charm in each jubilee-note ; To the dance — to the dance ! — How the rapturous feeling Gives wings to the feet — sends the spirit afloat ! With the Joyous doth Music rejoice ! 'Tis the stilly time of night, And the soft star-light Smiles in heaven — and — hark — the guitar ! And hush — 'tis the young lover's voice To his own — to his earthly star. And She is His — in vain — in vain Would woman burst the magic chain Of love and love-inwoven sound ; — Love-inwoven Sounds — ye come, And are language to the dumb, Heal the wounded heart — the hard heart ye wound ! To the battle — to the battle — Hurry out — To the tumult — and the shriek and the shout : Hark the bugle — how it thrills — " To the strife" — " What is life ?"— and the trumpet—" What is life ?" In every tone is Victory — how they scatter into air, Before the sunny Music, clouds of doubt, and fear, and care. THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC. 109 Already is the triumph won ! — already Fancy weaves, Dyed in the blood of enemies, the wreath of laurel leaves ! Wild in the war-whoop what ominous voices We hear o'er the battle-field pealing aloft — Peace smiles : in her sweet smile the green earth rejoices And welcoming Music comes mellow and soft. Slow down cathedral aisles streams prayer and praise, As, home returning from the battle-field, Their hands and hearts the joyous victors raise To Him, who in the battle was their shield. Listen to the Death-bell tolling, And its accents of consoling, Telling, to the long oppressed, That the weary is at rest, To the mourner whispering Of an everlasting spring ; Soothing thus, and reconciling, Softening, and to tears beguiling, With their measured murmurs deep, Agony, that could not weep ! Mysterious Tones ! and is it that you are The dreamy voices of a world unknown, 110 THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC. Heard faintly from the Paradise afar, Our Father's home, and yet to be our own ! Breathe on! breathe on, sweet tones! — still sing to me, Still sing to me of that angelic shore, That I may dream myself in heaven to be, And fancy life and all its sorrows o'er ! 1836. Ill LATIN TRANSLATION OF THE POEM ENTITLED « TIME." * Carcere comprensus vitreo, sine murmure, Pulvis Horarum lapsus dinumerare solet — Gnomonis Umbra fugax — et, custos pervigil aulee, Index, assiduo qui notat orbe diem. — Et certo, Tempus, fallenti et palpitat ictu, Haud secus ac saliens sanguine vena micat ; Nescia stare loco, lapsu fluit Hora silenti, Sedula dum peragit jussa Ministra Dei. Sunt, matutinum quos surgere carmen alaudae Ad vitse, memores, munia certa jubet, Aut galli cantus, quern diri criminis olim Audiit attonita, conscius aure Petrus, Tunc ubi deficiens, sed nunquam victa minaces Irarum fluctus vix tulit segra Fides. F. A. * See page 1 of this volume. 112 MEMORY. FROM THE GERMAN OF S. E. WILHELMINA VON SASSEN. On you I think, while lingering far away From all I love, till streams the eye with tears, — The fields are full of life — the groves are gay And green ! — and Spring in all her charms appears. On you I think ! when, by the silent shore, Memory recalls whate'er was dear to me ! As shuddering I stray, where moonbeams hoar Scatter their silvery light o'er sand and sea. On you I think, when, where the alders fringe The stream, I view their shadows pictured fair, I gaze on clouds that evening colours tinge, And the heart whispers, shall I meet you there ? On you I think ! — unloved, abandoned, lone, 'Mong dreary scenes that cannot give relief, — And when, at evening gray, in proud saloon I mourn, and worldlings dream not of my grief ! RANZ DES V ACHES, FROM WILLIAM TELL. A DRAMA, BY SCHILLER. " There was, and I believe still is, a popular belief in this part of the world, that on the festival of St. Jude, [on which the play opens,] some one was destined to be drowned in the lake. This superstition is alluded to in the verses sung by the fisher-boy." — William Tell, London, 1829. " The mist partially clearing away for a few moments, re- vealed a portion of the scenery below, wherein we could discover the towns of Lucerne and Zug, Immensee and Kiissnacht, with the lakes of Zug, Sempach, Hallwyll, Baldegg, and Lucerne." — Downes's Letters from Continental Countries. RANZ DES VACHES. FROM SCHILLER. WILLIAM TELL.— ACT I.— Scene 1. Scene — The elevated rocky shore of the lake of the Four Forest Cantons, opposite Schwitz. The lake forms a creek in the land: a hut is seen at a short ■ distance from the shore — a Fisher-hoy is rowing by, on the lake in a boat. At some distance over the lake, the green meadows, villages, and farms of Schwitz, are seen reposing in clear sun -shine. To the left the peaks of the Hacken, enveloped in clouds , and to the right, the Glaciers in the remote dis- tance. Before the curtain rises, the Ranz des Vaches and the musical sound of the cattle-bells are heard, and continue for some time while the scene is opening. i2 116 SCHILLER. Fisher-boy, in his boat. [Ranz des Vaches.] The lake smiles bright in stirring light ; The little boy sleeps on the sunny flowers ; A voice sails low The waters along, Like the flute's soft flow, — Like an angel's song, A breath from Eden's bowers ! — He wakens in wonder from his rest, The light spray falls upon his breast ; The waters are rising, slow and slow, The waters are singing — sweet and low : Is it a dream, or is there a voice That whispers winningly, Mine thou art, and mine to be ! Lovely little one, come to me ! From the deeps below I have looked on thee : Sweet was thy sleep, while I sang from the deep, " Lovely little one, come to me, Mine, for ever-more, to be !" RANZ DES VACHES. 117 Herdsman, on the hill. [Variation of the Ranz des Vaches.] Farewell ! farewell to the field, Farewell to the sunny lawn ! To the mountains the herd must away ; Summer is over and gone. Away ! to the mountains away ! With the cuckoo's call when the green woods ring, When the small bird's song awakens the spring, When the breeze is blythe and the fields are gay, When the rivulet sparkles and sings on his way, We will hail the merry May ! Farewell ! farewell to the field, Farewell to the sunny lawn ! To the mountains we must away, Summer is over and gone ! Chamois-hunter, seen on a high rock. [Second Variation of the Ranz des Vaches.] On the mountains the thunder swings long and deep, And shakes the rocks on the dizzy steep ; — O'er the trembling bridge, on the mountain ridge, 118 SCHILLER. Where the gulf yawns dark and the clouds sweep dim, Is the hunter's path — but fear not for him ! Over fields of ice, where no flower may breathe, Where the black mists, in billows, are toiling beneath ; He looks for the dwellings of men, — but between Is the black mist, — and hamlet and hut are unseen ; Away, in the breeze, rolls the cloud, and he sees Glimmers of broken light, glimpses of green. SCENES FROM THE PILGRIMAGE, A DRAMA, BY DE LA MOTTE FOUQU& DRAMATIS PERSONS. Thuring. Irwin, } ■ > Thuring" s Sons. Florus, £ s Antonius. Verena. ZlLIA. Hormisdas, a Magician. Youths and Maidens, Captives of Hormisdas, and under the influence of his Magic. THE PILGRIMAGE,* A DRAMA, BY DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE. Scene — a Wood. Enter Florus, (Thuring's younger Son.) Forth wandering with thee, rich light of morning, That now, in glory, o'er the wood of firs Dost rise, and brighten into living gold, The vaporous clouds, I tread again this loved And lonely valley. — Sweet, secluded haunt, Which none intrudes on ! — My sick father still * For the purpose of introducing the scenes translated from this drama, it is necessary to state, that Thuring, an old knight, fearing the approach of death, and suffering from the accusa- tions of conscience, thinks that his only chance of salvation de- pends on the performance of a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepul- chre. The journey presenting too many difficulties to himself in his infirm state of health, he wishes to transfer it to one of his two sons. 122 DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE. Is slumbering, — fearful Dreams stand round his bed, Disquieting his rest, and torturing me, Each night the witness of his agonies. — But every creature has its load to bear, And every creature has its source of comfort. — The bee, who revels here 'mong perfumed flowers, Voluptuously, will soon, fatigued, return, A burthened labourer, to her fragrant cell. — Why, Floras, why complain then of thy task ? Thou hast, like them, thy spring of consolation — Enjoyments, that refresh thy languid spirit In the blest hours of silent dewy morn. Now, Master deeply loved, ah, linger not. [Looks round in expectation. The castle's far away, — the hour at hand That wakes my father from his spectral dreams. — Ah, Master ! thou whose dear society Restores, re-animates me, linger not. How make thee hear me ? — should I sing thy song, The fearful ballad of " the Guest betrayed" Then would'st thou come, perhaps, but come in anger- Displeased with him, who ventured to repeat That serious secret to the woods ; — how angry Thou wert, when first I overheard the words, And said'st that only by thy ear and voice Such sounds ought ever to be heard or uttered j But still the song, deep in my memory, THE PILGRIMAGE. 123 Remained, exciting strange mysterious horror, And my heart, while it shuddered, felt that fear Gave an increased delight ; — ah, linger not, Dear Master !— What, can I endure the want — Of thy society ? live even one day, Unheard the charm of thy sweet solemn voice ? — Unfelt the pleasures of alternate song ? This shall I suffer ?■ — never ! — I will venture — * [Sings. " On the battlements 'tis sweet to stand, In the morning beam or the evening dew ; For the eye can range o'er wooded land, And meadow green and water blue. " Hither the king hath led his guest — His guest, who sought for shelter here, Confiding to the king, his friend, The keeping of his gold and gear. " ' My guest, look over the battlements — Look out, as far as you can see, You hear below the waters flow, And the maiden singing merrily, " The guest did Antonius, {entering,) No more of this ! Who bids thee sing my song? 124 de la motte fouque. Florus. — Master ! Antonius. Now thou art trembling ! — now thy cheek grows pale ! — What child-like folly to awake the wrath That makes thee shudder in such pain ! Florus. Yes ! yes ! 'Tis true I shudder, — do but look upon me, Even with eyes thus on fire — Oh ! far more soon Would I beneath their glow consent to wither, To crumble into dust, than home return Without beholding thee. — O noble Spirit ! To conjure and to call thee up before me, I used a daring spell, — and thou hast come In wrath — but thou hast come, and all my wish Is satisfied. Antonius. Rash boy ! to fling away The object of his passionate desire — Lose it for ever, sooner than sustain An hour's delay ! To-day the woods are thronged With many an ardent follower of the chase ; THE PILGRIMAGE. 125 Thy singing may be heard, — and such a song, Which to the rocks 'twere madness to confide, — Some one may place himself to watch thy steps, To overhear thy words. Florus. Oh, fear it not. They deem me a reserved and distant boy, Not worth a thought — scarce good enough to tend My father's bed of sickness — in the feats Of hunting or of horsemanship, I'm nothing ! Antonius. You know them not : — if a man haunts the woods, Deserts the amusements of his school associates, Forms friendships with old trees, prefers a song To idle conversation, soon a crowd Will follow him, — they not alone deride Him, but become continual spies upon His every motion ; — if thy rashness brings A throng of busy followers thus upon My steps, oh ! dearly— -dearly as I love thee, We part, to meet no more I Florus. Ah ! spare such threats. 126 de la. motte fouque. Antonius. Oh, this would be a fine discovery ! — Thuring's romantic son found all alone Among the mountains with this grey old man, These verses on his lips, — 'tis not enough That this vain chattering may expose my life, But peace of mind, bought with such difficulty, Is scared away for ever. — No ! in vain Would'st thou beseech me then ; I could not meet These waves of trouble. Sooner than endure What I foresee, loved pupil, we should part. Florus. Tears, lighting up thine eyes, disclaim thy words, — Ah ! why with fears like these thus torture me ? Why pain thyself by such severity ? Here, in the lonely forest, none can hear us — Even I myself, I know not Thee, — thy Songs Alone are mine, — thy songs, thy words of healing ! With some old rhyme, then, chase this gloom away, With an old story scatter it in air, One of thy many songs, and sage old legends — Or teach me, Master dear, the mystery Of the Gay Science — thine ennobling art, Thine elevating — humanizing art ; Charmed by thy words divine, I bear away In silent memory each treasured thought ; — Fair flowers, they cheer life's waste. the pilgrimage. 127 Antonius. Believing child ! Sit down beside me, then, on this green sod ; Oh, it relieves me from the weariness Of solitude, recalls me into life, Thus to instruct thee in the tales of old, The wisdom breathing in the minstrel's song ; Then listen. Irwin, Thuring's elder Son, (unseen.) Winfred, Winfred ! Antonius. Ha ! the voice Of a huntsman in the woods, and near ! Florus. My brother's ; At times he here pursues the chace, and Winfred, The husband of the beautiful Verena, Is his companion on the mountain heights ; Be not disturbed at this, my dear, dear Master. Antonius. And a young warrior know it ? 128 DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE. Irwin, (unseen.) Farewell, Winfred, A. pleasant journey. Antonius. All is over now, This vale no longer is a solitude. Irwin, (from a rock above.) Ha ! yonder in the copse-screen see my brother ! — And, close to him, is that the mountain-fiend, With his long gray ragged beard ? Yes ! yes ! I have it— This makes all plain ; — his was the song, with which The forest rang Your pardon, good my brother ! — A few steps off, the rock is not too steep, And then I have your secret. \_He passes on. Antonius. See'st thou, now ? Thou foolish idle boy — Ah ! see'st thou now, Thy thoughtless act has parted us for ever — For ever. Florus. Master, master, leave me not. the pilgrimage. 129 Antonius. I must — I fear I must ; it grieves me sorely ; Farewell — thou never wilt behold me more ! [Exit Florus. And was he then in earnest ? No ! oh, no ! The storm will threaten oft in sultry days, Yet pass away uninjuring ; yea, at times Reviving the parched earth ; thus thou, dear Master, Would'st terrify me, not destroy. Irwin, {enters.) Where is he gone, — that spectre old and gray ? Vanished ? — air melted into air ! Florus. Alas, Vanished ! Irwin. And is it this, that makes thee mournful ? Florus. You came, dear brother, at an ill-timed moment. Irwin. A pretty secret, this, to guard so closely ; 130 DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE. Our father torturing us to go as pilgrims To Palestine ; you still refuse to go ; I thought a pretty girl was in the case, But here I find you squatting, side by side, With an old, dull, ill-humoured fool, who flies Into his bushes to conceal himself. Florus. Nay, speak not thus ; I will not listen to it. Irwin. Why, this sounds well. How long is't since you've learned This loud and passionate language ? My fine fellow, That baby-arm, it terrifies me not. Florus. What mean you ? art thou not my brother ? Yet Thy skill in arms, thy fame for knightly deeds, Were no restraint to me, if holy anger Seized me. Irwin. Well, when it comes, we're ready for it. But tell me now, why do you thus resist This pilgrimage ? You'll meet with, in the East, I should imagine, woody vales enough, And good old gentlemen with long gray beards. THE PILGRIMAGE. 131 Florus. My dear, dear brother, cease this ridicule ; And I entreat thee, never to betray In merry mood, or random conversation, What thou just now hast seen ; — that good old man (I know no more of him, than that each morning We meet, to enjoy the stillness of the wood, And the delight of song) has taught me much That other masters strive in vain to teach, The high ennobling art of Poetry. Each chooses for himself some guide in life, And he is mine. Oh ! tear me not from him ! Divorced from him, I think I could not live. Here will I stay, and nurse my dying father ; The joys of battle, and the chace be thine, Be thine our steeds, our armoury. Irwin. Oh, yes ! Because your woman heart would tremble at them. Florus. Sir Irwin, I, too, am a son of Thuring's. Irwin. Prove it, and show thyself a warrior. k2 132 de la motte fouque. Florus. Why, I should think a mind like thine, delighted With bold adventures, would enjoy a journey Into the East, into the land of Morning. Irwin. What know you of such feelings, housewife-heart ? Florus. Ah ! brother, thou art cruel, quarrelsome. Farewell, then, thou hast sent me mournful home ; I go to tend my father — fare thee well. Irwin. How mild he is — ah ! pardon me, dear boy, In me my father's stormy passions rise. But thou, whose heart reflects the piety And meekness of our sweet dead mother's spirit, Ah ! bear with me. My own ! my Florus. [Embracing him. Florus. Tears, Irwin ? thou in tears ? Irwin. Thou knowest them not, The passions that are torturing my sick heart. THE PILGRIMAGE. 133 O, woe is me, for I am driven along Where ruin beckons me ; and with a smile So sweet, expressive of such love, allures me, That sin seems something bright and beautiful, And suffering for such cause, even enviable ! Florus. I hear your words, but understand them not — Words in a foreign tongue, they Irwin. Happy boy, Ah ! never learn it. Passion's language soon Is taught ; we lisp the sounds with ease ; the lessons Soon understood, can never be forgotten — Never forgotten, though the heart should sigh Eagerly for oblivion. Florus. Brother, brother ! Irwin. Is Winfred not my friend ? my fellow-soldier ? Is not his bride a consecrated image ? Florus. Who said she was not ? 134 de la motte fouque. Irwin. And to me he leaves her ; Confides her to my care ; sets out upon A distant journey, leaving me the guardian Here of his castle, and of his Verena. Oh ! that he were returned, this conflict over, This struggle between Virtue, Friendship, Passion, This agony that tortures, yet delights me — Oh ! that the victory were won, and yet — Farewell. [Exit. Florus. What can he mean ? these words, these starts, Rapture and Fear ? I can't conceive his meaning ! [Exit in the opposite direction. Scene — A chamber in Thuring's Castle. Thuring, (coming out from a side-door.) Ho ! Florus, Florus, still these evil dreams Come back and terrify my senses. Florus, Chase them away. Ho ! Florus ! Where is he ? He hears me not ; the empty vaults re-echo My voice ; what — gone — gone out, to amuse himself. Ah ! Thuring, desolate old man, thy cares Are well repaid ; two sons thou hast brought up, Two dutiful sons, who, when the question is THE PILGRIMAGE. 135 Of my salvation, which this pilgrimage Would render certain — love their home, forsooth, So well, they could not live if absent from it, Attached as branches to the parent tree. But let the arch glance of a merry eye, Or war, or tournament, attract the one, Or let an old song catch the other's fancy, The castle-hearth is soon abandoned then. Take care, lest these my cruel sufferings Draw down, from my pale lips, a father's curse ; And this, as oft of old has been experienced, Will weigh you down with horror to the grave, And from the grave to hell — hell — hell ! Cursed word ! Hark, was not that a step — a low light step Upon the stairs, that lead to the dark chamber ? What, if 'twere he I — fool — ghosts glide noiselessly, And yet, there's many an old true tale, that tells How the dead body shakes his white dry limbs To terrify the murderer. Florus, Florus — They leave me all alone. Oh ! take my life, Torture me not with this prolonged suspense, Dread object of my fear ! come let me venture, Supported on my staff, to reach the door Which separates me from my torturer. Again that step — it sounds more heavily. [Bursting open the door. Hurra ! what art thou ? 136 DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE. Antonius, (without.) God of mercy, save me ! It prays ! Thuring. Antonius, (at the door.) Poor phantom-haunted, sick, old man ; And is it thou ? Thuring. Antonius, come nearer, I'm all alone. Antonius, {entering.) Old man, you frightened me. Thuring. Yes ! yes ! you shrank, and trembled at my sight. Antonius. How could I but be terrified ? thy cries Expressed insanity and agony Of conscience — this might make a pure heart shudder, Thuring. Where wert thou going ? why with such a light, And stealing step, did you glide by the door ? the pilgrimage. 137 Antonius. Poor man, I dreaded to disturb thy sleep. Thuring. This is derision ; callest thou, then, me poor ? Me — me — this castle's powerful master ; — me Thy patron — thy protector — who conceals thee Even from his children ; at thy strange desire, Shelters the perpetrator of a crime, God only knows how great ; — for in thy heart Some crime must be concealed, else why this strict And jealous secrecy ? — deny it not. Antonius. Pure am I in the eye of God. Thuring. Why then This torturing concealment ? Antonius. Ask me not. This secrecy but gratifies your wishes !* * In return for the concealment afforded to him, Thuring, whose conscience reproaches him with the murder of Lother, the betrayed guest, insists on Antonius's interceding for him, by prayer and penance, and thus endeavouring to appease the spirit of Lother, which he is persuaded continues to haunt him. 138 de la motte fouque. Thuring. But thou should'st pray, pray zealously, unceasingly. Instead of this, thou loiterest away The morning hours, in rambling through the forest. Antonius. This will no longer be the case. Alas ! That I should say, no longer. Thuring. Let me know The truth — speak out — does not the shade of Lother Still w T alk in that dark chamber ? Thou art shuddering! Hast thou — thou must have — seen him ? all thy features Of his, methinks, have caught the stern expression, And mirror his with horrible resemblance. Go — go — into that dread and lonely chamber. Let me not see again that face of his ! — Go ! I conjure thee, go ! Antonius. Peace be with thee. [Exit. Thuring, {alone.) The gaze of this mysterious man at times Affects me with strange terror ; and a word — THE PILGRIMAGE. 139 'Tis wonderful — a little word from him — " Peace be with thee," — A common phrase like this — Said with that tone, will give me back again My health of spirit, will restore my life — Ha ! Florus comes ! Quick bolt the door. \_He bolts the door through which An ton i us -has gone out. Enter Florus. Thuring, (to himself.) Oh ! how this beautiful and blooming face, Reflecting every motion of the spirit, Reminds me of the days that have gone by ! — I too was gay, and innocent as he ; I too had nothing to conceal. It seems When I behold him, as if I myself Came, in the brightness of my better days, ' Here to reproach the gray old man with crimes Done in the melancholy interval ! Florus. My father, only tell me in what way To lighten of their load the dreary hours ; To make thee cheerful, — shall I pray ? or sing ? Or read some old romance ? or chronicle Of days that 140 de la motte fouque. Thuring. Woe is me, my son, far more Than prayer, or song, romance, or chronicle, One word — that one word I've so oft demanded — One word from thee, said from thy heart sincerely, " I go a pilgrim to Jerusalem" Will please thy father — save thy father's soul. Wilt thou refuse me ? Florus. Let me ask my father, Does the old warrior hate his peaceful son So much, as thus o'er sea and land to banish him ? Thuring. Oh think not thus ! my dear, dear son, best staff Of my old age ; but where does Irwin rove ? Florus. Sir Winfred has set out on a long journey, And left in Irwin's charge his wife and castle. Thuring. Winfred's a fool. Florus. A fool say you, to trust The friendship of the honourable Irwin ? THE PILGRIMAGE. 141 Thuring. Why, think yourself — Verena loveliest Of women — Irwin the most valiant knight. Florus. What mean you ? Thuring. Can you not conceive ? 'Tis this That makes your brother to his native land Thus constant. Florus. How ? to guard his friend's effects ? Thuring. Oh tranquil, clear, unsullied stream ! my Florus, Why wilt thou not in pious pilgrimage, Now in the fragrant time of budding youth, Seek for thy father's sake, the holy grave ? * * * * * * * * Florus. Each man has some one object of pursuit, Which wins his love, to which his heart impels him With force, that will not be opposed, to which He eagerly devotes his faculties, 142 DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE. And lavishes his thoughts delightedly On the dear idol : — Poetry to me Has thus been consecrated, rules my heart Like a pervading passion, claims the homage Of all my powers. Oh knit not thus thy brows, My father ! often hath my song dispelled Thy savage dreams ; and often hath it soothed Thy senses, lulling thee to sweet oblivion, Diffusing its own magic dreams around thee : Such, father, is the charm of Poetry In every place where there is Man to feel. Through the wide world the soother's voice is felt, And me the charmer sought, and me she summoned ; And while with timid eye and heart confused, Unable to interpret my own feelings, I gazed around me, doubtful, diffident, There met me an old, pious, worthy man, Affectionate and cheerful ; he became My master, taught me the loved mystery Of song — instructed me how man should seek And learn to know his God ! Many a rich tale He told — delightful narratives to hear, Flowing so sweetly from those reverend lips ! Oh, father, tear me not from him ; in truth, I feel my conduct different on the days I speak to him. Then am I mild and good ; Unsteady, languid, harsh, dissatisfied, When I have missed the old man's company THE PILGRIMAGE. 148 'Tis said, that in man's purest thoughts there still Is evil mingled. This he drives away. Nothing unholy can endure his presence. Let me each morning seek the lonely valley ; Find there the balm, that heals the soul. Thus, father, Thy son's affections, and his happiness, Will be secured. ThuRiNG, (scornfully.) Ha ! ha ! and this is Virtue ! The thing men boast of ! — here is one whose wishes And outward seeming speak of purity, And yet the devil is living in his heart, As in all other men's. Florus. You chide me, father, 'Tis but a moment since you spoke with praise ; And praise and blame — so given — alike perplex me. Thuring. Thee, boy, — I blame not thee — I blame Man's nature. How they do speak of crime, (for thus they call it,) And thou, who canst not understand what's meant ' By an allusion to the least transgression, (I scarce should call it by so harsh a name,) To the least rashness, thou wilt say that Evil Dwells in thy heart ! Ye all are hypocrites. 144 de la motte fouque. Florus. No, father ! Of this rashness, as you call it, I nothing know, nor feel I self-convicted Of any thing, the thought of which should stain My cheek with shame ; but in the book of God We read, that Man is fallen. Thuring. The book of God ! Ay, thus the monks — your master hypocrites — Will talk. And is it there you screen yourself ? $fc "Sfc $fc t£ s w v S$ •^ V ^d< ."iMl":^ cF ■ ,.\ *_<■>„>&> v v _ Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 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