Part 2 — NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA.

In Genoa, when the sunset gave Its last warm purple to the wave, No sound of war, no voice of fear, Was heard, announcing danger near: Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate But slumber’d till its hour of fate, Yet calmly, at the twilight’s close, Sunk the wide city to repose. But when deep midnight reign’d around, All sudden woke the alarm-bell’s sound, Full swelling, while the hollow breeze Bore its dread summons o’er the seas. Then, Genoa, from their slumber started Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted; Then mingled with th’ awakening peal Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. Arm, warriors! arm! for danger calls; Arise to guard your native walls! With breathless haste the gathering throng Hurry the echoing streets along; Through darkness rushing to the scene Where their bold counsels still convene. But there a blaze of torches bright Pours its red radiance on the night, O’er fane, and dome, and column playing, With every fitful night-wind swaying: Now floating o’er each tall arcade, Around the pillar’d scene display’d, In light relieved by depth of shade: And now, with ruddy meteor glare, Full streaming on the silvery hair And the bright cross of him who stands Rearing that sign with suppliant hands, Girt with his consecrated train, The hallow’d servants of the fane. Of life’s past woes the fading trace Hath given that aged patriarch’s face Expression holy, deep, resign’d, The calm sublimity of mind. Years o’er his snowy head have pass’d, And left him of his race the last, Alone on earth—yet still his mien Is bright with majesty serene; And those high hopes, whose guiding star Shines from th’ eternal worlds afar, Have with that light illumed his eye Whose fount is immortality, And o’er his features pour’d a ray Of glory, not to pass away. He seems a being who hath known Communion with his God alone, On earth by nought but pity’s tie Detain’d a moment from on high! One to sublimer worlds allied, One from all passion purified, E’en now half mingled with the sky, And all prepared—oh! not to die— But, like the prophet, to aspire, In heaven’s triumphal car of fire. He speaks—and from the throngs around Is heard not e’en a whisper’d sound; Awe-struck each heart, and fix’d each glance, They stand as in a spell-bound trance: He speaks—oh! who can hear nor own The might of each prevailing tone? “Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long Aroused to strife by mutual wrong, Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate Hath made your country desolate; Now by the love ye bear her name, By that pure spark of holy flame On freedom’s altar brightly burning, But, once extinguished, ne’er returning; By all your hopes of bliss to come When burst the bondage of the tomb; By Him, the God who bade us live To aid each other, and forgive— I call upon ye to resign Your discords at your country’s shrine, Each ancient feud in peace atone, Wield your keen swords for her alone, And swear upon the cross, to cast Oblivion’s mantle o’er the past!” No voice replies. The holy bands Advance to where yon chieftain stands, With folded arms, and brow of gloom O’ershadow’d by his floating plume. To him they lift the cross—in vain: He turns—oh! say not with disdain, But with a mien of haughty grief, That seeks not e’en from heaven relief. He rends his robes—he sternly speaks— Yet tears are on the warrior’s checks:— “Father! not thus the wounds may close Inflicted by eternal foes. Deem’st thou thy mandate can efface The dread volcano’s burning trace? Or bid the earthquake’s ravaged scene Be smiling as it once hath been? No! for the deeds the sword hath done Forgiveness is not lightly won; The words by hatred spoke may not Be as a summer breeze forgot! ’Tis vain—we deem the war-feud’s rage A portion of our heritage. Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, Bequeath’d us that undying flame; Hearts that have long been still and cold Yet rule us from their silent mould; And voices, heard on earth no more, Speak to our spirits as of yore. Talk not of mercy!—blood alone The stain of bloodshed may atone; Nought else can pay that mighty debt, The dead forbid us to forget.” He pauses. From the patriarch’s brow There beams more lofty grandeur now; His reverend form, his aged hand, Assume a gesture of command; His voice is awful, and his eye Fill’d with prophetic majesty. “The dead!—and deem’st thou they retain Aught of terrestrial passion’s stain? Of guilt incurr’d in days gone by, Aught but the fearful penalty? And say’st thou, mortal! blood alone For deeds of slaughter may atone? There hath been blood—by Him ’twas shed To expiate every crime who bled; Th’ absolving God, who died to save, And rose in victory from the grave! And by that stainless offering given Alike for all on earth to heaven; By that inevitable hour When death shall vanquish pride and power, And each departing passion’s force Concentrate all in late remorse; And by the day when doom shall be Pass’d on earth’s millions, and on thee— The doom that shall not be repeal’d, Once utter’d, and for ever seal’d— I summon thee, O child of clay! To cast thy darker thoughts away, And meet thy foes in peace and love, As thou wouldst join the blest above.” Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling Is o’er the chieftain’s bosom stealing. Oh, not in vain the pleading cries Of anxious thousands round him rise! He yields: devotion’s mingled sense Of faith, and fear, and penitence, Pervading all his soul, he bows To offer on the cross his vows, And that best incense to the skies, Each evil passion’s sacrifice. Then tears from warriors’ eyes were flowing, High hearts with soft emotions glowing; Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting, And ardent throngs in transport meeting; And eager footsteps forward pressing, And accents loud in joyous blessing; And when their first wild tumults cease, A thousand voices echo “Peace!” Twilight’s dim mist hath roll’d away, And the rich Orient burns with day; Then as to greet the sunbeam’s birth, Rises the choral hymn of earth— Th’ exulting strain through Genoa swelling, Of peace and holy rapture telling. Far float the sounds o’er vale and steep, The seaman hears them on the deep— So mellow’d by the gale, they seem As the wild music of a dream. But not on mortal ear alone Peals the triumphant anthem’s tone; For beings of a purer sphere Bend with celestial joy, to hear.

The Troubadour o’er many a plain Hath roam’d unwearied, but in vain. O’er many a rugged mountain-scene And forest wild his track hath been: Beneath Calabria’s glowing sky He hath sung the songs of chivalry; His voice hath swell’d on the Alpine breeze, And rung through the snowy Pyrenees; From Ebro’s banks to Danube’s wave, He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave; And yet, if still on earth thou art, Monarch of the lion-heart! The faithful spirit, which distress But heightens to devotedness, By toil and trial vanquish’d not, Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot. He hath reach’d a mountain hung with vine, And woods that wave o’er the lovely Rhine: The feudal towers that crest its height Frown in unconquerable might; Dark is their aspect of sullen state— No helmet hangs o’er the massy gate[126] To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, At the chieftain’s board a welcome guest; Vainly rich evening’s parting smile Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, That midst bright sunshine lowers on high, Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky. Not these the halls where a child of song Awhile may speed the hours along; Their echoes should repeat alone The tyrant’s mandate, the prisoner’s moan, Or the wild huntsman’s bugle-blast, When his phantom train are hurrying past.[127] The weary minstrel paused—his eye Roved o’er the scene despondingly: Within the length’ning shadow, cast By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast, Lingering he gazed. The rocks around Sublime in savage grandeur frown’d; Proud guardians of the regal flood, In giant strength the mountains stood— By torrents cleft, by tempests riven, Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven. Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, But the Rhine all shadowy roll’d below; In purple tints the vineyards smiled, But the woods beyond waved dark and wild; Nor pastoral pipe nor convent’s bell Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell; But all was lonely, silent, rude, A stern, yet glorious solitude. But hark! that solemn stillness breaking, The Troubadour’s wild song is waking. Full oft that song in days gone by Hath cheer’d the sons of chivalry: It hath swell’d o’er Judah’s mountains lone, Hermon! thy echoes have learn’d its tone; On the Great Plain[128] its notes have rung, The leagued Crusaders’ tents among; Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won The palm in the field of Ascalon; And now afar o’er the rocks of Rhine Peals the bold strain of Palestine.

“Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,” The Soldan cried to the captive knight, “And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met To gaze on the fearful sight. “But be our faith by thy lips profess’d, The faith of Mecca’s shrine, Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest, And life shall yet be thine.” “I have seen the flow of my bosom’s blood, And gazed with undaunted eye; I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood, And think’st thou I fear to die? “I have stood where thousands, by Salem’s towers, Have fall’n for the name Divine; And the faith that cheer’d their closing hours Shall be the light of mine.” “Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health, And the glow of youth’s fresh bloom? Thou art offer’d life, and pomp, and wealth, Or torture and the tomb.” “I have been where the crown of thorns was twined For a dying Saviour’s brow; He spurn’d the treasures that lure mankind, And I reject them now!” “Art thou the son of a noble line In a land that is fair and blest? And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine Again on its shores to rest? “Thine own is the choice to hail once more The soil of thy father’s birth, Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o’er, Forgotten in foreign earth.” “Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise In the country of my love; But yet, though cloudless my native skies, There’s a brighter clime above!” The bard hath paused—for another tone Blends with the music of his own; And his heart beats high with hope again, As a well-known voice prolongs the strain. “Are there none within thy father’s hall, Far o’er the wide blue main, Young Christian! left to deplore thy fall, With sorrow deep and vain?” “There are hearts that still, through all the past, Unchanging have loved me well; There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast When I bade my home farewell. “Better they wept o’er the warrior’s bier Than th’ apostate’s living stain; There’s a land where those who loved when here Shall meet to love again.” ’Tis he! thy prince—long sought, long lost, The leader of the red-cross host! ’Tis he!—to none thy joy betray, Young Troubadour! away, away! Away to the island of the brave, The gem on the bosom of the wave;[129] Arouse the sons of the noble soil To win their Lion from the toil. And free the wassail-cup shall flow, Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow; The festal board shall be richly crown’d, While knights and chieftains revel round, And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, When merry England hails her king.

No cloud to dim the splendour of the day Which breaks o’er Naples and her lovely bay, And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore With every tint that charm’d the great of yore— Th’ imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade Their marble domes e’en ocean’s realm invade. That race is gone—but glorious Nature here Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, And bids these regions of the sun display Bright hues, surviving empires pass’d away. The beam of heaven expands—its kindling smile Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle, Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest, With all its rocks and vines, on ocean’s breast. Misenum’s cape hath caught the vivid ray, On Roman streamers there no more to play; Still, as of old, unalterably bright, Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo’s height, With all Italia’s sunshine to illume The ilex canopy of Virgil’s tomb. Campania’s plains rejoice in light, and spread Their gay luxuriance o’er the mighty dead; Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, Thy palaces, exulting Naples! rise; While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak, Furrow’d and dark with many a lava streak. Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse! Rich with all nature’s and all fiction’s hues, Who shall explore your regions, and declare The poet err’d to paint Elysium there? Call up his spirit, wanderer! bid him guide Thy steps those syren-haunted seas beside; And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, And spells more potent shall pervade the air. What though his dust be scatter’d, and his urn Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,[130] Still dwell the beings of his verse around, Hovering in beauty o’er th’ enchanted ground; His lays are murmur’d in each breeze that roves Soft o’er the sunny waves and orange-groves; His memory’s charm is spread o’er shore and sea, The soul, the genius of Parthenope; Shedding o’er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill The purple radiance of Elysium still. Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky Have witness’d many a dark reality. Oft o’er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne The sighs of exiles never to return.[131] There with the whisper of Campania’s gale Hath mingled oft affection’s funeral wail, Mourning for buried heroes—while to her That glowing land was but their sepulchre.[132] And there, of old, the dread mysterious moan Swell’d from strange voices of no mortal tone; And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note Was heard at midnight o’er the hills to float Around the spot where Agrippina died, Denouncing vengeance on the matricide.[133] Pass’d are those ages—yet another crime, Another woe, must stain th’ Elysian clime. There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore— It must be crimson’d ere the day is o’er! There is a throne in regal pomp array’d,— A scene of death from thence must be survey’d. Mark’d ye the rushing throngs?—each mien is pale, Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale: But the deep workings of th’ indignant breast, Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress’d; The burning tear awhile must check its course, Th’ avenging thought concentrate all its force; For tyranny is near, and will not brook Aught but submission in each guarded look. Girt with his fierce Provençals, and with mien Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene,[134] And in his eye a keen suspicious glance Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, Behold the conqueror! Vainly in his face Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace; Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament: And pleading mercy, in the sternness there, May read at once her sentence—to despair! But thou, fair boy! the beautiful, the brave, Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, While all is yet around thee which can give A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live; Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother’s eye, Till the deep love that not with thee shall die Hath grown too full for utterance—Can it be! And is this pomp of death prepared for thee? Young, royal Conradin! who shouldst have known Of life as yet the sunny smile alone! Oh! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom Of youth, array’d so richly for the tomb, Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, Emotions tyranny may ne’er control? Bright victim! to Ambition’s altar led, Crown’d with all flowers that heaven on earth can shed, Who, from th’ oppressor towering in his pride, May hope for mercy—if to thee denied? There is dead silence on the breathless throng, Dead silence all the peopled shore along, As on the captive moves—the only sound, To break that calm so fearfully profound, The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave; While on that shore, his own fair heritage, The youthful martyr to a tyrant’s rage Is passing to his fate: the eyes are dim Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him. He mounts the scaffold—doth his footstep fail? Doth his lip quiver? doth his cheek turn pale? Oh! it may be forgiven him if a thought Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, To all the hopes that promised glory’s meed, And all th’ affections that with him shall bleed! If, in his life’s young dayspring, while the rose Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, One human fear convulse his parting breath, And shrink from all the bitterness of death! But no! the spirit of his royal race Sits brightly on his brow: that youthful face Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye Is eloquent with injured majesty. He kneels—but not to man; his heart shall own Such deep submission to his God alone! And who can tell with what sustaining power That God may visit him in fate’s dread hour? How the still voice, which answers every moan, May speak of hope—when hope on earth is gone? That solemn pause is o’er—the youth hath given One glance of parting love to earth and heaven: The sun rejoices in th’ unclouded sky, Life all around him glows—and he must die? Yet midst his people, undismay’d, he throws The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes; Vengeance that, like their own volcano’s fire, May sleep suppress’d a while—but not expire. One softer image rises o’er his breast, One fond regret, and all shall be at rest! “Alas, for thee, my mother! who shall bear To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, When thy lost child is gone?”—that thought can thrill His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. The lifted axe is glittering in the sun— It falls—the race of Conradin is run! Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to stain, A voice shall cry to heaven—and not in vain! Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, In proud supremacy of guilt alone, Charles of Anjou!—but that dread voice shall be A fearful summoner e’en yet to thee! The scene of death is closed—the throngs depart, A deep stem lesson graved on every heart. No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies. O vainly royal and beloved! thy grave, Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean’s wave; Mark’d by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, Unhonour’d, unadorn’d—but unforgot; For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, Now mutely suffering—never to forgive! The sunset fades from purple heavens away— A bark hath anchor’d in the unruffled bay: Thence on the beach descends a female form,[135] Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm; But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, And her soft eyes a chasten’d heart bespeak, Inured to woes—yet what were all the past! She sank not feebly ’neath affliction’s blast, While one bright hope remain’d—who now shall tell Th’ uncrown’d, the widow’d, how her loved one fell? To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, The mother came—and she hath found his grave! And by that grave, transfix’d in speechless grief, Whose deathlike trance denies a tear’s relief, Awhile she kneels—till roused at length to know, To feel the might, the fulness of her woe, On the still air a voice of anguish wild, A mother’s cry is heard—“My Conradin! my child!”

When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, Has learn’d to dare the splendour of the sky, And leave the Alps beneath him in his course, To bathe his crest in morn’s empyreal source; Will his free wing, from that majestic height, Descend to follow some wild meteor’s light, Which far below, with evanescent fire, Shines to delude and dazzles to expire? No! still through clouds he wins his upward way, And proudly claims his heritage of day! —And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze The dayspring from on high hath pour’d its blaze, Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam, Luring the wanderer from the star of faith To the deep valley of the shades of death? What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, For the high birthright of its hope in heaven? If lost the gem which empires could not buy, What yet remains?—a dark eternity! Is earth still Eden?—might a seraph guest Still midst its chosen bowers delighted rest? Is all so cloudless and so calm below, We seek no fairer scenes than life can show? That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, Rejects the promise of a brighter state, And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace, To rear his dwelling on the quicksand’s base? Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng, Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die! ’Tis well—thine eye is yet undimm’d by time, And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; Smile then unmoved at Wisdom’s warning voice, And in the glory of thy strength rejoice! But life hath sterner tasks; e’en youth’s brief hours Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil, Are few and distant on the desert soil; The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan, And pain and sorrow claim their nursling—Man! Earth’s noblest sons the bitter cup have shared— Proud child of reason! how art thou prepared? When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow’d, And o’er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain With the bright images of pleasure’s train? Yes! as the sight of some far-distant shore, Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more, Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave Drawn, vainly struggling, to th’ unfathom’d grave! Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, She who, like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all? Will she speak comfort?—Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush’d the only voice whose angel tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown! For she was born beyond the stars to soar, And kindling at the source of life, adore; Thou couldst not, mortal! rivet to the earth Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth; She dwells with those who leave her pinion free, And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee. Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft, But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left; And, haply, one whose strong affection’s power Unchanged may triumph through misfortune’s hour, Still with fond care supports thy languid head, And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed. But thou whose thoughts have no blest home above, Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to love? To nurse such feelings as delight to rest Within that hallow’d shrine—a parent’s breast, To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, On one frail idol—destined but to die; Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, Where sever’d souls, made perfect, re-unite? Then tremble! cling to every passing joy, Twined with the life a moment may destroy! If there be sorrow in a parting tear, Still let “for ever” vibrate on thine ear! If some bright hour on rapture’s wing hath flown, Find more than anguish in the thought—’tis gone! Go! to a voice such magic influence give, Thou canst not lose its melody, and live; And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, And let a glance the springs of thought control; Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight; There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, Lean on the willow, idolise the dust! Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, Think on that dread “for ever”—and despair! And oh! no strange, unwonted storm there needs To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. Watch well its course—explore with anxious eye Each little cloud that floats along the sky: Is the blue canopy serenely fair? Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, And the bark sink when peace and sunshine sleep On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep! Yes! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate, May the blow fall which makes thee desolate! Not always heaven’s destroying angel shrouds His awful form in tempests and in clouds; He fills the summer air with latent power, He hides his venom in the scented flower, He steals upon thee in the zephyr’s breath, And festal garlands veil the shafts of death! Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, And vainly hope the tree of life to find Rooted in sands that flit before the wind? Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well, It wish’d not in a brighter sphere to dwell, Become a desert now, a vale of gloom, O’ershadow’d with the midnight of the tomb? Where shalt thou turn? It is not thine to raise To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze— No gleam reflected from that realm of rest Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast; Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed Her glory round the image of the dead; And if, when slumber’s lonely couch is prest, The form departed be thy spirit’s guest, It bears no light from purer worlds to this; Thy future lends not e’en a dream of bliss. But who shall dare the gate of life to close, Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows? That fount unseal’d, whose boundless waves embrace Each distant isle, and visit every race, Pours from the throne of God its current free, Nor yet denies th’ immortal draught to thee. Oh! while the doom impends, not yet decreed, While yet th’ Atoner hath not ceased to plead— While still, suspended by a single hair, The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air, Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break The bruisèd reed; e’en yet, awake, awake! Patient, because Eternal,[138] He may hear Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear, And send his chastening Spirit from above, O’er the deep chaos of thy soul to move. But seek thou mercy through his name alone, To whose unequall’d sorrows none was shown; Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode, As man to suffer, and to heal as God; And, born the sons of utmost time to bless, Endured all scorn, and aided all distress. Call thou on Him! for he, in human form, Hath walk’d the waves of life, and still’d the storm. He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, O’er Salem wept, relenting to the last— Wept with such tears as Judah’s monarch pour’d O’er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored; And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live, Taught from his Cross the lesson—to forgive! Call thou on Him! His prayer e’en then arose, Breathed in unpitied anguish for his foes. And haste!—ere bursts the lightning from on high, Fly to the City of thy Refuge, fly![139] So shall th’ Avenger turn his steps away, And sheath his falchion, baffled of its prey. Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood, As the soft halcyon, o’er thy heart subdued; Ere yet the Dove of Heaven descend to shed Inspiring influence o’er thy fallen head. —He who hath pined in dungeons, midst the shade Of such deep night as man for man hath made, Through lingering years—if call’d at length to be Once more, by nature’s boundless charter, free Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun, Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun. Thus, when the captive soul hath long remain’d In its own dread abyss of darkness chain’d, If the Deliverer, in his might at last, Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, The beam of truth o’erpowers its dazzled sight, Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. But this will pass away: that spark of mind, Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined, Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray, Born to be foster’d with ethereal day. Then wilt thou bless the hour when o’er thee pass’d, On wing of flame, the purifying blast, And sorrow’s voice, through paths before untrod, Like Sinai’s trumpet, call’d thee to thy God! But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride, Heaven’s messenger, affliction, to deride? In thine own strength unaided to defy, With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky? Torn by the vulture, fetter’d to the rock, Still, demigod! the tempest wilt thou mock? Alas! the tower that crests the mountain’s brow A thousand years may awe the vale below, Yet not the less be shatter’d on its height By one dread moment of the earthquake’s might! A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, In silent fortitude or haughty scorn, Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent To break the mighty heart that ne’er was bent. Oh! what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye, By mind deserted, hath a dread reply! The wild delirious laughter of despair, The mirth of frenzy—seek an answer there! Turn not away, though pity’s cheek grow pale, Close not thine ear against their awful tale. They tell thee Reason, wandering from the ray Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way, In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave Forsook the struggling soul she could not save! Weep not, sad moralist! o’er desert plains Strew’d with the wrecks of grandeur—mouldering fanes, Arches of triumph, long with weeds o’ergrown, And regal cities, now the serpent’s own: Earth has more awful ruins—one lost mind, Whose star is quench’d, hath lessons for mankind Of deeper import than each prostrate dome Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. But who with eye unshrinking shall explore That waste, illumed by reason’s beam no more? Who pierce the deep mysterious clouds that roll Around the shatter’d temple of the soul, Curtain’d with midnight? Low its columns lie, And dark the chambers of its imagery;[140] Sunk are its idols now—and God alone May rear the fabric by their fall o’erthrown! Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare, Is heard an oracle that cries—“Beware! Child of the dust! but ransom’d of the skies! One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies! Haste, ere the hour of doom—draw nigh to Him Who dwells above, between the cherubim!” Spirit dethroned! and check’d in mid career— Son of the morning! exiled from thy sphere, Tell us thy tale! Perchance thy race was run With science in the chariot of the sun; Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep, Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep, And search the laws that nature’s springs control, There tracing all—save Him who guides the whole! Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast Through the dim shades, the portals of the past; By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed From the far beacon-lights of ages fled, The depths of time exploring, to retrace The glorious march of many a vanish’d race. Or did thy power pervade the living lyre Till its deep chords became instinct with fire, Silenced all meaner notes, and swell’d on high, Full and alone, their mighty harmony; While woke each passion from its cell profound, And nations started at th’ electric sound? Lord of th’ ascendant! what avails it now, Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow? What though thy name, through distant empires heard, Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle-word? Was it for this thy still unwearied eye Kept vigil with the watchfires of the sky, To make the secrets of all ages thine, And commune with majestic thoughts that shine O’er Time’s long shadowy pathway?—hath thy mind Sever’d its lone dominions from mankind, For this to woo their homage! Thou hast sought All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught, Won every wreath—but that which will not die, Nor aught neglected—save eternity! And did all fail thee in the hour of wrath, When burst th’ o’erwhelming vials on thy path? Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, O spirit! sceptred by the sons of men, With an immortal’s courage, to sustain The transient agonies of earthly pain? —One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved When the loud fury of the billow raved; But him thou knew’st not—and the light he lent Hath vanish’d from its ruin’d tenement, But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, A thing we shrink from—vainly to forget! —Lift the dread veil no further! Hide, oh hide The bleeding form, the couch of suicide! The dagger, grasp’d in death—the brow, the eye, Lifeless, yet stamp’d with rage and agony; The soul’s dark traces left in many a line Graved on his mein, who died—“and made no sign!” Approach not, gaze not—lest thy fever’d brain Too deep that image of despair retain. Angels of slumber! o’er the midnight hour Let not such visions claim unhallow’d power, Lest the mind sink with terror, and above See but th’ Avenger’s arm, forget th’ Atoner’s love! O Thou! th’ unseen, th’ all-seeing!—Thou whose ways, Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand, And countless ages, trampling into clay Earth’s empires on their march, are but a day; Father of worlds unknown, unnumber’d!—Thou, With whom all time is one eternal now, Who know’st no past nor future—Thou whose breath Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death! Look on us! guide us!—wanderers of a sea Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee? A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, A star may set—and we are lost in night; A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool’s brink, A treacherous song allure us—and we sink! Oh! by His love, who, veiling Godhead’s light, To moments circumscribed the Infinite, And heaven and earth disdain’d not to ally By that dread union—Man with Deity; Immortal tears o’er mortal woes who shed, And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead; Save, or we perish! Let Thy word control The earthquakes of that universe—the soul; Pervade the depths of passion; speak once more The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, “Here shall thy waves be stay’d;” in grief, in pain, The fearful poise of reason’s sphere maintain. Thou, by whom suns are balanced! thus secure In Thee shall faith and fortitude endure; Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just Look upward still, in high and holy trust, And by affliction guided to Thy shrine, The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine. And oh! be near when, clothed with conquering power, The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour: When on the edge of that unknown abyss Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave, Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, Must drink the cup of trembling[141]—when we see Nought in the universe but Death and Thee, Forsake us not! If still, when life was young, Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, If Hope’s retreat hath been, through all the past, The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, Father, forsake us not! When tortures urge The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge— When from thy justice to thy love we fly, On nature’s conflict look with pitying eye; Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, Come in the “small still voice,” and whisper—Peace![142] For oh! ’tis awful! He that hath beheld The parting spirit, by its fears repell’d, Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain; He that hath seen the last convulsive throe Dissolve the union form’d and closed in woe, Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, We talk of Death as something which ’twere sweet In glory’s arms exultingly to meet— A closing triumph, a majestic scene, Where gazing nations watch the hero’s mien, As, undismay’d amidst the tears of all, He folds his mantle, regally to fall! —Hush, fond enthusiast! Still, obscure, and lone, Yet not less terrible because unknown, Is the last hour of thousands: they retire From life’s throng’d path, unnoticed to expire. As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears Some trembling insect’s little world of cares, Descends in silence—while around waves on The mighty forest, reckless what is gone! Such is man’s doom; and, ere an hour be flown, —Start not, thou trifler!—such may be thine own. But, as life’s current in its ebb draws near The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, A thrilling thought which, haply mock’d before, We fain would stifle—but it sleeps no more! There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng That join the masque of revelry and song: Yet still Death’s image, by its power restored, Frowns midst the roses of the festal board; And when deep shades o’er earth and ocean brood, And the heart owns the might of solitude, Is its low whisper heard?—a note profound, But wild and startling as the trumpet sound That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose Of some proud city, storm’d by midnight foes!

Oh! vainly Reason’s scornful voice would prove That life had nought to claim such lingering love, And ask if e’er the captive, half unchain’d, Clung to the links which yet his step restrain’d. In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride, Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide, Call up the countless armies of the dead, Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, And say—“What wouldst thou? Shall the fix’d decree, Made for creation, be reversed for thee?” Poor, feeble aid! Proud Stoic! ask not why— It is enough that nature shrinks to die. Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid, Is her dread penalty, and must be paid! Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined And mystic questions of the parting mind, Half check’d, half utter’d: tell her what shall burst, In whelming grandeur, on her vision first, When freed from mortal films—what viewless world Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl’d— What awful and unbodied beings guide Her timid flight through regions yet untried; Say if at once, her final doom to hear, Before her God the trembler must appear, Or wait that day of terror, when the sea Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth shall flee? Hast thou no answer? Then deride no more The thoughts that shrink; yet cease not to explore The unknown, the unseen, the future—though the heart, As at unearthly sounds, before them start; Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh, They have their source in immortality! Whence, then, shall strength, which reason’s aid denies, An equal to the mortal conflict rise? When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace, Where’er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, The mighty rider comes—oh whence shall aid Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismay’d? Whence, but from thee, Messiah!—thou hast drain’d The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain’d; To thee the struggle and the pangs were known, The mystic horror—all became thine own! But did no hand celestial succour bring, Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting? Came not th’ Archangel, in the final hour, To arm thee with invulnerable power? No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, From man averted—and thy path on high Pass’d through the straight of fiercest agony: For thus the Eternal, with propitious eyes, Received the last, the almighty sacrifice! But wake! be glad, ye nations! from the tomb Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom! The vale of death in conquest hath been trod. Break forth in joy, ye ransom’d! saith your God; Swell ye the raptures of the song afar, And hail with harps your bright and Morning Star. He rose! the everlasting gates of day Received the King of Glory on his way! The hope, the comforter of those who wept, And the first-fruits of them in Him that slept, He rose, he triumph’d! he will yet sustain Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. Aided by Him, around the martyr’s frame When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice! Aided by Him, though none the bed attend Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend, He whom the busy world shall miss no more Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart, Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart! And say, cold Sophist! if by thee bereft Of that high hope, to misery what were left? But for the vision of the days to be, But for the comforter despised by thee, Should we not wither at the Chastener’s look, Should we not sink beneath our God’s rebuke, When o’er our heads the desolating blast, Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass’d, And the stem power who seeks the noblest prey Hath call’d our fairest and our best away? Should we not madden when our eyes behold All that we loved in marble stillness cold, No more responsive to our smile or sigh, Fix’d—frozen—silent—all mortality? But for the promise, “All shall yet be well,” Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel Beneath such clouds as darken’d when the hand Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land; And thou,[143] just lent thy gladden’d isles to bless, Then snatch’d from earth with all thy loveliness, With all a nation’s blessings on thy head, O England’s flower! wert gather’d to the dead? But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart Faith’s lofty lesson didst thyself impart! When fled the hope through all thy pangs which smiled, When thy young bosom o’er thy lifeless child Yearn’d with vain longing—still thy patient eye To its last light beam’d holy constancy! Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, Amidst those agonies—thy first and last, Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, Breathed not a plaint—and settled in repose; While bow’d thy royal head to Him whose power Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, Who from the brightest vision of a throne, Love, glory, empire, claim’d thee for his own, And spread such terror o’er the sea-girt coast, As blasted Israel when her ark was lost! “It is the will of God!”—yet, yet we hear The words which closed thy beautiful career; Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, But for that thought—“It is the will of God!” Who shall arraign th’ Eternal’s dark decree If not one murmur then escaped from thee? Oh! still, though vanishing without a trace, Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, Hallow’d by freedom and enshrined in song! Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, E’en as an angel, with presiding care, To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies Call on the watchers of the land to rise, To set the sign of fire on every height,[144] And o’er the mountains rear with patriot might, Prepared, if summon’d, in its cause to die, The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory! By this hath England conquer’d. Field and flood Have own’d her sovereignty: alone she stood, When chains o’er all the sceptred earth were thrown, In high and holy singleness, alone, But mighty in her God—and shall she now Forget before th’ Omnipotent to bow? From the bright fountain of her glory turn, Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn? No! sever’d land, midst rocks and billows rude, Throned in thy majesty of solitude, Still in the deep asylum of thy breast Shall the pure elements of greatness rest, Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers, Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers! Still, where thy hamlet vales, O chosen isle! In the soft beauty of their verdure smile, Where yew and elm o’ershade the lowly fanes That guard the peasant’s records and remains, May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell, And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades, When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades, Devotion’s voice in choral hymns arise, And bear the land’s warm incense to the skies. There may the mother, as with anxious joy To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, Teach his young accent still the immortal lays Of Zion’s bards, in inspiration’s days, When angels, whispering through the cedar shade, Prophetic tones to Judah’s harp convey’d; And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes, She bids the prayer of infancy arise, Tell of His name who left his throne on high, Earth’s lowliest lot to bear and sanctify, His love divine, by keenest anguish tried, And fondly say—“My child, for thee He died!”

‘E’en youth’s brief hours Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan, And pain and sorrow claim their nursling—Man.’

‘She, who like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all, Will she speak comfort?—Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush’d the only voice whose angel-tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown.’

‘He whom the busy world shall miss no more Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart, Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart.’

‘Oh, what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye, By mind deserted, hath a dread reply,’ etc.”]

Beings of brighter worlds! that rise at times As phantoms with ideal beauty fraught, In those brief visions of celestial climes Which pass like sunbeams o’er the realms of thought, Dwell ye around us?—are ye hovering nigh, Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air? And in deep solitudes, where human eye Can trace no step, Immortals! are ye there? Oh! who can tell?—what power, but Death alone, Can lift the mystic veil that shades the world unknown?

But Earth hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers Of Eden wither’d, when reveal’d ye shone In all your brightness midst those holy bowers— Holy, but not unfading, as your own! While He, the child of that primeval soil, With you its paths in high communion trode, His glory yet undimm’d by guilt or toil, And beaming in the image of his God, And his pure spirit glowing from the sky, Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity.

Then, haply, mortal and celestial lays, Mingling their tones, from nature’s temple rose, When nought but that majestic song of praise Broke on the sanctity of night’s repose, With music since unheard: and man might trace By stream and vale, in deep embow’ring shade, Devotion’s first and loveliest dwelling-place, The footsteps of th’ Omnipotent, who made That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast Her consecrated wealth, rejoicing as He pass’d.

Short were those days, and soon, O sons of Heaven! Your aspect changed for man. In that dread hour, When from his paradise the alien driven Beheld your forms in angry splendour tower, Guarding the clime where he no more might dwell With meteor-swords: he saw the living flame, And his first cry of misery was—“Farewell!” His heart’s first anguish, exile: he became A pilgrim on the earth, whose children’s lot Is still for happier lands to pine—and reach them not.

Where now the chosen bowers that once beheld Delight and Love their first bright sabbath keep? From all its founts the world of waters swell’d, And wrapt them in the mantle of the deep! For He, to whom the elements are slaves, In wrath unchain’d the oceans of the cloud, And heaved the abyss beneath, till waves on waves Folded creation in their mighty shroud; Then left the earth a solitude, o’erspread With its own awful weeks—a desert of the dead.

But onward flow’d life’s busy course again, And rolling ages with them bore away— As to be lost amidst the boundless main, Rich orient streams their golden sands convey— The hallow’d lore of old—the guiding light Left by tradition to the sons of earth, And the blest memory of each sacred rite Known in the region of their father’s birth, When in each breeze around his fair abode Whisper’d a seraph’s voice, or lived the breath of God.

Who hath not seen, what time the orb of day, Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean’s breast, A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray, Catching brief splendour from the purple west? So round thy parting steps, fair Truth! awhile With borrow’d hues unnumber’d phantoms shone; And Superstition, from thy lingering smile, Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own, Blending her rites with thine—while yet afar Thine eye’s last radiance beam’d, a slow-receding star.

Yet still one stream was pure—one sever’d shrine Was fed with holier fire, by chosen hands; And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine, Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands. There still the father to his child bequeath’d The sacred torch of never-dying flame; There still Devotion’s suppliant accents breathed The One adored and everlasting Name; And angel guests would linger and repose Where those primeval tents amid their palm-trees rose.

But far o’er earth the apostate wanderers bore Their alien rites. For them, by fount or shade, Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore, In thrilling whispers to the soul convey’d High inspiration: yet in every clime, Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought With beings, in their essence more sublime, To hold communion of mysterious thought; On some dread power in trembling hope to lean, And hear in every wind the accents of th’ Unseen.

Yes! we have need to bid our hopes repose On some protecting influence: here confined, Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes, Earth is too narrow for th’ immortal mind. Our spirits burn to mingle with the day, As exiles panting for their native coast, Yet lured by every wild-flower from their way, And shrinking from the gulf that must be cross’d. Death hovers round us: in the zephyr’s sigh, As in the storm, he comes—and lo! Eternity!

As one left lonely on the desert sands Of burning Afric, where, without a guide, He gazes as the pathless waste expands— Around, beyond, interminably wide; While the red haze, presaging the Simoom, Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky, Or suns of blasting light perchance illume The glistening Serab[145] which illudes his eye: Such was the wanderer Man, in ages flown, Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread Unknown.

His thoughts explored the past—and where were they, The chiefs of men, the mighty ones gone by? He turn’d—a boundless void before him lay, Wrapp’d in the shadows of futurity. How knew the child of Nature that the flame He felt within him struggling to ascend, Should perish not with that terrestrial frame Doom’d with the earth on which it moved, to blend? How, when affliction bade his spirit bleed, If ’twere a Father’s love or Tyrant’s wrath decreed?

Oh! marvel not if then he sought to trace In all sublimities of sight and sound, In rushing winds that wander through all space, Or midst deep woods, with holy gloom embrown’d, The oracles of Fate! or if the train Of floating forms that throng the world of sleep, And sounds that vibrate on the slumberer’s brain, When mortal voices rest in stillness deep, Were deem’d mysterious revelations, sent From viewless powers, the lords of each dread element.

Was not wild Nature, in that elder-time, Clothed with a deeper power?—earth’s wandering race, Exploring realms of solitude sublime, Not as we see, beheld her awful face! Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met Their searching eyes; unpeopled kingdoms lay In savage pomp before them—all was yet Silent and vast, but not as in decay; And the bright daystar, from his burning throne, Look’d o’er a thousand shores, untrodden, voiceless, lone.

The forests in their dark luxuriance waved, With all their swell of strange Æolian sound; The fearful deep, sole region ne’er enslaved, Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round. Then, brooding o’er the images, imprest By forms of grandeur thronging on his eye, And faint traditions, guarded in his breast, Midst dim remembrances of infancy, Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams, Peopling each wilder haunt of mountains, groves, and streams.

Then bled the victim—then in every shade Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine; Fear bow’d before the phantoms she portray’d, And Nature teem’d with many a mystic sign. Meteors, and storms, and thunders! ye whose course E’en yet is awful to th’ enlighten’d eye, As, wildly rushing from your secret source, Your sounding chariot sweeps the realms on high, Then o’er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast, And the wide nations gazed, and trembled as ye pass’d.

But you, ye stars! in distant glory burning, Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky! To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning, Would pierce the secrets of infinity— To you the heart, bereft of other light, Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains, Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night, Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns, Cloudless and silent, circled with the race Of some unnumber’d orbs, that light the depths of space.

Shine on! and brightly plead for erring thought, Whose wing, unaided in its course, explored The wide creation, and beholding nought Like your eternal beauty, then adored Its living splendours; deeming them inform’d By natures temper’d with a holier fire— Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warm’d, Who to the source of spirit might aspire, And mortal prayers benignantly convey To some presiding Power, more awful far than they.

Guides o’er the desert and the deep! to you The seaman turn’d, rejoicing at the helm, When from the regions of empyreal blue Ye pour’d soft radiance o’er the ocean-realm; To you the dweller of the plains address’d Vain prayers, that call’d the clouds and dews your own; To you the shepherd, on the mountain’s crest, Kindled the fires that far through midnight shone, As earth would light up all her hills, to vie With your immortal host, and image back the sky.

Hail to the queen of heaven! her silvery crown Serenely wearing, o’er her high domain She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down, As if to smile on her terrestrial reign. Earth should be hush’d in slumber—but the night Calls forth her worshippers; the feast is spread, On hoary Lebanon’s umbrageous height The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed To her, whose beams illume those cedar-shades Faintly as Nature’s light the ’wilder’d soul pervades.

But when thine orb, all earth’s rich hues restoring, Came forth, O sun! in majesty supreme, Still, from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring Beauty and life in each triumphant beam, Through thine own East what joyous rites prevail’d! What choral songs re-echo’d! while thy fire Shone o’er its thousand altars, and exhaled The precious incense of each odorous pyre, Heap’d with the richest balms of spicy vales, And aromatic woods that scent the Arabian gales.

Yet not with Saba’s fragrant wealth alone, Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strew’d; For the dark children of the burning zone Drew frenzy from thy fervours, and bedew’d With their own blood thy shrine; while that wild scene, Haply with pitying eye, thine angel view’d, And though with glory mantled, and severe In his own fulness of beatitude, Yet mourn’d for those whose spirits from thy ray Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day.

But earth had deeper stains. Ethereal powers! Benignant seraphs! wont to leave the skies, And hold high converse, midst his native bowers, With the once glorious son of Paradise, Look’d ye from heaven in sadness! were your strains Of choral praise suspended in dismay, When the polluted shrine of Syria’s plains With clouds of incense dimm’d the blaze of day? Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes. While demons hail’d the pomp of human sacrifice?

And well the powers of evil might rejoice, When rose from Tophet’s vale the exulting cry, And, deaf to Nature’s supplicating voice, The frantic mother bore her child to die! Around her vainly clung his feeble hands With sacred instinct: love hath lost its sway, While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands, And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey. Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale! Well may the drum’s loud peal o’erpower an infant’s wail?

A voice of sorrow! not from thence it rose; ’Twas not the childless mother. Syrian maids, Where with red wave the mountain streamlet flows, Keep tearful vigil in their native shades. With dirge and plaint the cedar-groves resound, Each rock’s deep echo for Adonis mourns: Weep for the dead! Away! the lost is found— To life and love the buried god returns! Then wakes the timbrel—then the forests ring, And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze’s wing!

But fill’d with holier joy the Persian stood, In silent reverence, on the mountain’s brow, At early dayspring, while the expanding flood Of radiance burst around, above, below— Bright, boundless as eternity: he gazed Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o’erflow’d In worship of th’ Invisible, and praised In thee, O Sun! the symbol and abode Of life, and power, and excellence—the throne Where dwelt the Unapproach’d, resplendently alone.[146]

What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gave Mysterious sanctity to things which wear Th’ Eternal’s impress?—if the living wave, The circling heavens, the free and boundless air— If the pure founts of everlasting flame, Deep in his country’s hallow’d vales enshrined, And the bright stars maintain’d a silent claim To love and homage from his awe-struck mind? Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream Of uncreated Power, far, far o’er these supreme.

And with that faith was conquest. He whose name To Judah’s harp of prophecy had rung— He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame The mighty voice of Inspiration sung, He came, the victor Cyrus! As he pass’d, Thrones to his footstep rock’d, and monarchs lay Suppliant and clothed with dust; while nations cast Their ancient idols down before his way, Who in majestic march, from shore to shore, The quenchless flame revered by Persia’s children bore.