Part 2 — PART II. (continued 2)

For it hath mighty lessons! from the tomb, And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, Midst the wreck’d cities in the desert’s gloom, All tameless creatures make their savage lair, Thence comes its voice, that shakes the midnight air, And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day, And thrills the soul;—yet bids us not despair, But make one Rock our shelter and our stay, Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay!

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam O’er the hush’d waters tremulously fall, Pour’d from the Cæsars’ palace; now the beam Of many lamps is brightening in the hall, And from its long arcades and pillars tall Soft graceful shadows undulating lie On the wave’s heaving bosom, and recall A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky, And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry.

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound! The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more, Wafting an atmosphere of music round, Tells the hush’d seaman, gliding past the shore, How monarchs revel there! Its feasts are o’er— Why gleam the lights along its colonnade? —I see a train of guests in silence pour Through its long avenues of terraced shade, Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone were made!

In silence, and in arms! With helm—with sword— These are no marriage garments! Yet e’en now Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board, Thy Georgian bride should wreathe her lovely brow With an imperial diadem![214]—but thou, O fated prince! art call’d, and these with thee, To darker scenes; and thou hast learn’d to bow Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree, And count it joy enough to perish—being free!

On through long vestibules, with solemn tread, As men, that in some time of fear and woe, Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead, O’er whom by day their sorrows may not flow, The warriors pass: their measured steps are slow, And hollow echoes fill the marble halls, Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go In desolate pomp; and from the pictured walls, Sad seems the light itself which on their armour falls!

And they have reach’d a gorgeous chamber, bright With all we dream of splendour; yet a gloom Seems gather’d o’er it to the boding sight, A shadow that anticipates the tomb! Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume A purple canopy, a golden throne; But it is empty!—hath the stroke of doom Fallen there already? Where is He, the One, Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone?

Oh! there are times whose pleasure doth efface Earth’s vain distinctions! When the storm beats loud, When the strong towers are tottering to their base, And the streets rock,—who mingle in the crowd? —Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud, Are in that throng! Yes, life hath many an hour Which makes us kindred, by one chast’ning bow’d, And feeling but, as from the storm we cower, What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded power!

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high, Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak, In the deep human heart more gloriously, Than in the bursting thunder! Thence the weak, They that seem’d form’d, as flower-stems, but to break With the first wind, have risen to deeds whose name Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek, And thrill the pulse!—Ay, strength no pangs could tame Hath look’d from woman’s eye upon the sword and flame!

And this is of such hours!—That throne is void, And its lord comes uncrown’d. Behold him stand, With a calm brow, where woes have not destroy’d The Greek’s heroic beauty, midst his band, The gather’d virtue of a sinking land— Alas! how scanty! Now is cast aside All form of princely state; each noble hand Is press’d by turns in his: for earthly pride There is no room in hearts where earthly hope hath died!

A moment’s hush—and then he speaks—he speaks! But not of hope! that dream hath long gone by: His words are full of memory—as he seeks, By the strong names of Rome and Liberty, Which yet are living powers that fire the eye, And rouse the heart of manhood; and by all The sad yet grand remembrances, that lie Deep with earth’s buried heroes; to recall The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall!

His words are full of faith!—and thoughts, more high Than Rome e’er knew, now fill his glance with light; Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die, Than e’er were drawn from Nature’s haughty might! And to that eye, with all the spirit bright, Have theirs replied in tears, which may not shame The bravest in such moments! ’Tis a sight To make all earthly splendours cold and tame, —That generous burst of soul, with its electric flame!

They weep—those champions of the Cross—they weep, Yet vow themselves to death! Ay, midst that train, Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep Their lofty sacrifice! The pang is vain, And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain A warrior’s sword. Those men are strangers here:[215] The homes they never may behold again, Lie far away, with all things blest and dear, On laughing shores, to which their barks no more shall steer!

Know’st thou the land where bloom the orange bowers?[216] Where, through dark foliage, gleam the citron’s dyes? —It is their own. They see their fathers’ towers Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise: They meet, in soul, the bright Italian eyes Which long and vainly shall explore the main For their white sails’ return: the melodies Of that sweet land are floating o’er their brain— Oh! what a crowded world one moment may contain!

Such moments come to thousands!—few may die Amidst their native shades. The young, the brave, The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye Made summer in a parent’s heart, and gave Light to their peopled homes; o’er land and wave Are scatter’d fast and far, as rose-leaves fall From the deserted stem. They find a grave Far from the shadow of th’ ancestral hall, A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope to all!

But life flows on, and bears us with its tide, Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell, Though they were those once blooming at our side In youth’s gay home! Away! what sound’s deep swell Comes on the wind?—It is an empire’s knell, Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night! For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite, With a funereal voice of solitary might.

Again, and yet again! A startling power In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear, Full on remembrance, each eventful hour Checkering life’s crowded path. They fill the air When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear A mien like joy’s; and when your brides are led From their paternal homes; and when the glare Of burning streets on midnight’s cloud waves red, And when the silent house receives its guest—the dead.[217]

But to those tones what thrilling soul was given On that last night of empire! As a spell Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven, On the chill’d heart of multitudes they fell. Each cadence seem’d a prophecy, to tell Of sceptres passing from their line away, An angel-watcher’s long and sad farewell, The requiem of a faith’s departing sway, A throne’s, a nation’s dirge, a wail for earth’s decay.

Again, and yet again!—from yon high dome, Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they Who never more, to rest in mortal home, Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day, Th’ imperial band, in close and arm’d array, As men that from the sword must part no more, Take through the midnight streets their silent way, Within their ancient temple to adore, Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are o’er.

It is the hour of sleep: yet few the eyes O’er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed In the beleaguer’d city. Stillness lies, With moonlight, o’er the hills and waters spread. But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread, The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet The last brave Constantine; and yet the tread Of many steps is in the echoing street, And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why they meet.

Their homes are luxury’s yet; why pour they thence With a dim terror in each restless eye? Hath the dread car which bears the pestilence, In darkness, with its heavy wheels roll’d by, And rock’d their palaces, as if on high The whirlwind pass’d? From couch and joyous board Hath the fierce phantom beckon’d them to die![218] —No!—what are these?—for them a cup is pour’d More dark with wrath,—man comes—the spoiler and the sword.

Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch-light throws On some wild form, amidst the living mass, Hues, deeply red like lava’s, which disclose What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes! Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp’d in prayer, Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward shows Betokening inward agonies, were there: Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair!

But high above that scene, in bright repose, And beauty borrowing from the torches’ gleams A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, But all instinct with loftier being seems, Pale, grand, colossal: lo! th’ embodied dreams Of yore!—Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought, Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes Of mortal passion! Yet ’twas man that caught, And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought!

Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome? That Rome which witness’d, in her sceptred days, So much of noble death? When shrine and dome, Midst clouds of incense, rang with choral lays, As the long triumph pass’d, with all its blaze Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne, O sovereign forms! concentring all the rays Of the soul’s lightnings?—did ye not adorn The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on, and to mourn?

Hath it been thus?—Or did ye grace the halls, Once peopled by the mighty? Haply there, In your still grandeur, from the pillar’d walls Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair,[219] Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare The stroke of its deliverance, midst the glow Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air, The sound of lyres, the flower-crown’d goblet’s flow. —Behold again!—high hearts make nobler offerings now!

The stately fane is reach’d—and at its gate The warriors pause. On life’s tumultuous tide A stillness falls, while he whom regal state Hath mark’d from all, to be more sternly tried By suffering, speaks: each ruder voice hath died, While his implores forgiveness!—“If there be One midst your throngs, my people! whom, in pride Or passion, I have wrong’d; such pardon free As mortals hope from heaven, accord that man to me!”

But all is silence; and a gush of tears Alone replies! He hath not been of those Who, fear’d by many, pine in secret fears Of all; th’ environ’d but by slaves and foes, To whom day brings not safety, night repose, For they have heard the voice cry, “Sleep no more!” Of them he hath not been, nor such as close Their hearts to misery, till the time is o’er, When it speaks low and kneels th’ oppressor’s throne before!

He hath been loved. But who may trust the love Of a degenerate race?—in other mould Are cast the free and lofty hearts that prove Their faith through fiery trials. Yet behold, And call him not forsaken!—thoughts untold Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread Moves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfold Within its precincts! Isles and seas have shed Their gorgeous treasures there, around th’ imperial dead.

’Tis a proud vision—that most regal pile Of ancient days! The lamps are streaming bright From its rich altar, down each pillar’d aisle, Whose vista fades in dimness; but the sight Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light Develops on those walls the thousand dyes Of the vein’d marbles, which array their height, And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes,[220] Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies.

But gaze thou not on these; though heaven’s own hues In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie— Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse Arch, column, rich mosaic—pass thou by The stately tombs, where Eastern Cæsars lie, Beneath their trophies: pause not here; for know, A deeper source of all sublimity Lives in man’s bosom, than the world can show In nature or in art—above, around, below.

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy gaze) The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone: Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze; Those heads unhelm’d, those kneeling forms alone, Thus bow’d, look glorious here. The light is thrown Full from the shrine on one, a nation’s lord, A sufferer! but his task shall soon be done— E’en now, as Faith’s mysterious cup is pour’d, See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, restored!

The rite is o’er. The band of brethren part, Once—and but once—to meet on earth again! Each, in the strength of a collected heart, To dare what man may dare—and know ’tis vain! The rite is o’er: and thou, majestic fane! The glory is departed from thy brow!— Be clothed with dust!—the Christian’s farewell strain Hath died within these walls; thy Cross must bow, Thy kingly tombs be spoil’d, the golden shrines laid low!

The streets grow still and lonely—and the star, The last bright lingerer in the path of morn, Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war, As if young Hope with twilight’s ray were born, Awhile the city sleeps: her throngs, o’erworn With fears and watchings, to their homes retire. Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn With battle-sounds;[221] the winds in sighs expire, And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam’s fire.

The city sleeps! Ay! on the combat’s eve, And by the scaffold’s brink, and midst the swell Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve Thus from her cares. The brave have slumber’d well, And e’en the fearful, in their dungeon cell, Chain’d between life and death. Such rest be thine, For conflicts wait thee still!—yet who can tell, In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine Full on thy spirit’s dream!—Sleep, weary Constantine!

Doth the blast rise?—the clouded east is red, As if a storm were gathering; and I hear What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread, The soft and smother’d step of those that fear Surprise from ambush’d foes. Hark! yet more near It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound; A rustling, as of winds, where boughs are sere— A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground From far; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound!

Wake! wake! They come from sea and shore ascending In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day! Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending, Through tower and wall, a path for their array? Hark! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey, With its wild voice, to which the seas reply; And the earth rocks beneath their engines’ sway, And the far hills repeat their battle-cry, Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky!

They fail not now, the generous band, that long Have ranged their swords around a falling throne; Still in those fearless men the walls are strong, Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own! —Shall those high energies be vainly shown? No! from their towers th’ invading tide is driven Back, like the Red Sea waves, when God had blown With his strong winds! The dark-brow’d ranks are riven:[222] Shout, warriors of the Cross!—for victory is of Heaven!

Stand firm! Again the Crescent host is rushing, And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep, With all their fires and darts, though blood is gushing Fast o’er their sides, as rivers to the deep. Stand firm!—there yet is hope; th’ ascent is steep, And from on high no shaft descends in vain. —But those that fall swell up the mangled heap, In the red moat, the dying and the slain, And o’er that fearful bridge the assailants mount again!

Oh! the dread mingling, in that awful hour, Of all terrific sounds!—the savage tone Of the wild horn, the cannon’s peal, the shower Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o’erthrown, The deep dull tambour’s beat—man’s voice alone Is there unheard! Ye may not catch the cry Of trampled thousands—prayer, and shriek, and moan, All drown’d, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by, But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory.

War-clouds have wrapt the city!—through their dun O’erloaded canopy, at times a blaze As of an angry storm-presaging sun, From the Greek fire shoots up![223] and lightning rays Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the haze, And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air! —Ay! this is in the compass of our gaze, But fearful things unknown, untold, are there— Workings of wrath and death, and anguish, and despair!

Woe, shame and woe!—A chief, a warrior flies, A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale! —Oh God! that Nature’s passing agonies Thus, o’er the spark which dies not, should prevail! Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter’d mail, And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa’s fallen son![224] Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail! —But there are tortures which thou canst not shun: The spirit is their prey—thy pangs are but begun!

Oh, happy in their homes, the noble dead! The seal is set on their majestic fame; Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they shed, Fate has no power to dim their stainless name! They may not, in one bitter moment, shame Long glorious years. From many a lofty stem Fall graceful flowers, and eagle hearts grow tame, And stars drop, fading from the diadem; But the bright past is theirs—there is no change for them!

Where art thou, Constantine?—where death is reaping His sevenfold harvest!—where the stormy light, Fast as th’ artillery’s thunderbolts are sweeping, Throws meteor-bursts o’er battle’s noonday-night! Where the towers rock and crumble from their height, As to the earthquake, and the engines ply Like red Vesuvio; and where human might Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high, While scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply.

Where art thou, Constantine?—where Christian blood Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain! Where faith and valour perish in the flood, Whose billows, rising o’er their bosoms, gain Dark strength each moment; where the gallant slain Around the banner of the Cross lie strew’d Thick as the vine-leaves on th’ autumnal plain; Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued, And through the breach press on th’ o’erwhelming multitude.

Now is he battling midst a host alone, As the last cedar stems awhile the sway Of mountain storms, whose fury hath o’erthrown Its forest-brethren in their green array! And he hath cast his purple robe away, With its imperial bearings, that his sword An iron ransom from the chain may pay, And win, what haply fate may yet accord, A soldier’s death—the all now left an empire’s lord!

Search for him now where bloodiest lie the files Which once were men, the faithful and the brave! Search for him now where loftiest rise the piles Of shatter’d helms and shields which could not save, And crests and banners never more to wave In the free winds of heaven! He is of those O’er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave, And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close, Yet wake them not!—so deep their long and last repose!

Woe to the vanquish’d!—thus it hath been still Since Time’s first march! Hark, hark, a people’s cry! Ay, now the conquerors in the streets fulfil Their task of wrath! In vain the victims fly; Hark! now each piercing tone of agony Blends in the city’s shriek! The lot is cast. Slaves! ’twas your choice thus, rather thus, to die, Than where the warrior’s blood flows warm and fast, And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the last!

Oh! well doth freedom battle! Men have made, E’en midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand, And on the floors, where once their children play’d, And by the hearths, round which their household band At evening met; ay, struggling hand to hand, Within the very chambers of their sleep, There have they taught the spoilers of the land In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep, To guard free homes! But ye!—kneel, tremblers! kneel, and weep!

’Tis eve—the storm hath died, the valiant rest Low on their shields; the days fierce work is done, And blood-stain’d seas and burning towers attest Its fearful deeds. An empire’s race is run! Sad, midst his glory, looks the parting sun Upon the captive city. Hark! a swell (Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won) Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell The Soldan comes within the Cæsars’ halls to dwell!

Yes! with the peal of cymbal and of gong, He comes: the Moslem treads those ancient halls! But all is stillness there, as death had long Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. And half that silence of the grave appals The conqueror’s heart. Ay! thus, with triumph’s hour, Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls A thought of those impervious clouds that lower O’er grandeur’s path, a sense of some far mightier Power!

“The owl upon Afrasiab’s towers hath sung Her watch-song,[225] and around th’ imperial throne The spider weaves his web!”—Still darkly hung That verse of omen, as a prophet’s tone, O’er his flush’d spirit. Years on years have flown To prove its truth: kings pile their domes in air, That the coil’d snake may bask on sculptured stone, And nations clear the forest, to prepare For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings there!

But thou! that on thy ramparts proudly dying, As a crown’d leader in such hours should die, Upon thy pyre of shiver’d spears art lying, With the heavens o’er thee for a canopy, And banners for thy shroud! No tear, no sigh, Shall mingle with thy dirge; for thou art now Beyond vicissitude! Lo! rear’d on high, The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow— But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, art thou!

“After life’s fitful fever thou sleep’st well!” We may not mourn thee! Sceptred chiefs, from whom The earth received her destiny, and fell Before them trembling—to a sterner doom Have oft been call’d. For them the dungeon’s gloom, With its cold starless midnight, hath been made More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb, Without a tomb’s repose, the chain hath weigh’d Their very soul to dust, with each high power decay’d.

Or in the eye of thousands they have stood, To meet the stroke of death; but not like thee! From bonds and scaffolds hath appeal’d their blood, But thou didst fall unfetter’d, arm’d, and free, And kingly to the last! And if it be, That from the viewless world, whose marvels none Return to tell, a spirit’s eye can see The things of earth: still may’st thou hail the sun, Which o’er thy land shall dawn, when freedom’s fight is won!

And the hour comes, in storm! A light is glancing Far through the forest god’s Arcadian shades! —’Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing, Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades. A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades, Round dark Cithæron and by Delphi’s steep; —’Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids, Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep, Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding deep!

Arms glitter on the mountains, which of old Awoke to freedom’s first heroic strain, And by the streams, once crimson, as they roll’d The Persian helm and standard to the main; And the blue waves of Salamis again Thrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply, With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain, Far as Platæa’s, where the mighty lie, Who crown’d so proudly there the bowl of liberty![226]

Bright land, with glory mantled o’er by song! Land of the vision-peopled hills, and streams, And fountains, whose deserted banks along Still the soft air with inspiration teems; Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be themes To verse for ever; and of ruin’d shrines, That scarce look desolate beneath such beams, As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines? —When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath their vines?

Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor fear! —Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave O’er Mantinea’s earth?—doth Pindus rear His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave? And is there yet on Marathon a grave? And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line By Sparta’s ruins? And shall man, a slave, Bow’d to the dust, amid such scenes repine? —If e’er a soil was mark’d for freedom’s step, ’tis thine!

Wash from that soil the stains with battle-showers. —Beneath Sophia’s dome the Moslem prays, The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers, In the Comneni’s halls the Tartar sways:[227] But not for long!—the spirit of those days, When the three hundred made their funeral pile Of Asia’s dead, is kindling, like the rays Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian isle.

If then ’tis given thee to arise in might, Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the chain, Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright! The cross of victory should not know a stain! So may that faith once more supremely reign, Through which we lift our spirits from the dust! And deem not, e’en when virtue dies in vain, She dies forsaken; but repose our trust On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable—but just.

‘Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, Sounds in the air, of battle,’ etc.

‘It was a sad and solemn task to hold Their midnight watch on that beleaguer’d wall,’ etc.

’Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn’s wild horn,[228] Like a wind’s voice, had pour’d its last long tone, Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods borne, To the low cabins of the glens made known That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone By cliff and pine bridge to their place of rest; The chamois slumber’d, for the chase was done; His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press’d, And the rock-eagle couch’d high on his cloudy nest.

Did the land sleep? The woodman’s axe had ceased Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane; The grapes were gather’d in; the vintage feast Was closed upon the hills, the reaper’s strain Hush’d by the streams; the year was in its wane, The night in its mid watch—it was a time E’en mark’d and hallow’d unto slumber’s reign; But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime, And o’er his white Alps moved the spirit of the clime.

For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread, High and unmark’d by mortal footstep lay; And there, where torrents, mid the ice-caves fed, Burst in their joy of light and sound away; And there, where freedom, as in scornful play, Had hung man’s dwellings midst the realms of air, O’er cliffs the very birthplace of the day— Oh! who would dream that tyranny could dare To lay her withering hand on God’s bright works e’en there?

Yet thus it was. Amidst the fleet streams gushing To bring down rainbows o’er their sparry cell, And the glad heights, through mist and tempest rushing Up where the sun’s red fire-glance earliest fell, And the fresh pastures where the herd’s sweet bell Recall’d such life as Eastern patriarchs led; There peasant men their free thoughts might not tell Save in the hour of shadows and of dread, And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt’s dull stealthy tread.

But in a land of happy shepherd homes, On its green hills in quiet joy reclining, With their bright hearth-fires, midst the twilight glooms, From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shining— A land of legends and wild songs, entwining Their memory with all memories loved and blest— In such a land there dwells a power, combining The strength of many a calm but fearless breast; And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its rest!

A sound went up—the wave’s dark sleep was broken— On Uri’s lake was heard a midnight oar— Of man’s brief course a troubled moment’s token Th’ eternal waters to their barriers bore; And then their gloom a flashing image wore Of torch-fires streaming out o’er crag and wood, And the wild falcon’s wing was heard to soar In startled haste—and by that moonlight flood, A band of patriot men on Grutli’s verdure stood.

They stood in arms: the wolf-spear and the bow Had waged their war on things of mountain race; Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe? —Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase, True hearts in fight, were gather’d on that place Of secret council. Not for fame or spoil So met those men in Heaven’s majestic face: To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil, The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil.

O’er their low pastoral valleys might the tide Of years have flow’d, and still, from sire to son, Their names and records on the green earth died, As cottage lamps, expiring one by one In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun To hush all sound. But silent on its height, The snow mass, full of death, while ages run Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light, Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding might.

So were they roused. Th’ invading step had pass’d Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door, Which well had stood against the Fohnwind’s blast,[229] Could bar Oppression from their home no more. Why, what had she to do where all things wore Wild grandeur’s impress? In the storm’s free way, How dared she lift her pageant crest before Th’ enduring and magnificent array Of sovereign Alps, that wing’d their eagles with the day?

This might not long be borne: the tameless hills Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling, Fraught with His name whose awful presence fills Their deep lone places, and for ever telling That He hath made man free! and they, whose dwelling Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear; The weight of sufferance from their hearts repelling, They rose—the forester—the mountaineer— Oh! what hath earth more strong than the good peasant spear?

Sacred be Grutli’s field! Their vigil keeping Through many a blue and starry summer night— There, while the sons of happier lands were sleeping, Had those brave Switzers met; and in the sight Of the just God, who pours forth burning might To gird the oppress’d, had given their deep thoughts way, And braced their spirits for the patriot fight, With lovely images of homes that lay Bower’d midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent spray.

Now had endurance reach’d its bounds! They came With courage set in each bright earnest eye, The day, the signal, and the hour to name, When they should gather on their hills to die, Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry For the land’s freedom. ’Twas a scene combining All glory in itself—the solemn sky, The stars, the waves their soften’d light enshrining, And man’s high soul supreme o’er mighty Nature shining.

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien, Breathing their souls in voices firm but low— As if the spirit of the hour and scene, With the woods’ whisper and the waves’ sweet flow, Had temper’d in their thoughtful hearts the glow Of all indignant feeling. To the breath Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow, E’en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.

And three, that seem’d as chieftains of the band, Were gather’d in the midst on that lone shore By Uri’s lake. A father of the land,[230] One on his brow the silent record wore Of many days, whose shadows had pass’d o’er His path among the hills, and quench’d the dreams Of youth with sorrow. Yet from memory’s lore Still his life’s evening drew its loveliest gleams, For he had walk’d with God, beside the mountain streams.

And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well To their last pillow silently have gone, As melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tell How life may task the spirit? He was one Who from its morn a freeman’s work had done, And reap’d his harvest, and his vintage press’d, Fearless of wrong; and now, at set of sun, He bow’d not to his years, for on the breast Of a still chainless land he deem’d it much to rest.

But for such holy rest strong hands must toil, Strong hearts endure! By that pale elder’s side, Stood one that seem’d a monarch of the soil, Serene and stately in his manhood’s pride— Werner,[231] the brave and true! If men have died Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep, He was a mate for such. The voice that cried Within his breast, “Arise!” came still and deep From his far home, that smiled e’en then in moonlight sleep.

It was a home to die for! As it rose Through its vine foliage, sending forth a sound Of mirthful childhood, o’er the green repose And laughing sunshine of the pastures round; And he, whose life to that sweet spot was bound, Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye, And set his free step firmer on the ground, When o’er his soul its melodies went by, As, through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy.

But who was he that on his hunting-spear Lean’d, with a prouder and more fiery bearing? His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear, Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing That which they may not tame—a soul declaring War against earth’s oppressors. Midst that throng Of other mould he seem’d, and loftier daring, One whose blood swept high impulses along, One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike song—

A memory on the mountains!—one to stand, When the hills echo’d with the deepening swell Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land, And in some rock defile, or savage dell, Array her peasant children to repel Th’ invader, sending arrows for his chains! Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell, Her banner with a smile—for through his veins The joy of danger flow’d, as torrents to the plains.

There was at times a wildness in the light Of his quick-flashing eye; a something born Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright, And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn! It well might be!—Young Erni’s step had worn[232] The mantling snows on their most regal steeps, And track’d the lynx above the clouds of morn, And follow’d where the flying chamois leaps Across the dark blue rifts, th’ unfathom’d glacier deeps.

He was a creature of the Alpine sky, A being whose bright spirit had been fed Midst the crown’d heights of joy and liberty, And thoughts of power. He knew each path which led To the rock’s treasure caves, whose crystal shed Soft light o’er secret fountains. At the tone Of his loud horn the Lammer-Geyer[233] had spread A startled wing—for oft that peal had blown Where the free cataract’s voice was wont to sound alone.

His step had track’d the waste, his soul had stirr’d The ancient solitudes—his voice had told Of wrongs to call down heaven.[234] That tale was heard In Hasli’s dales, and where the shepherds’ fold Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold On the bleak Oberland; and where the light Of day’s last footsteps bathes in burning gold Great Righi’s cliffs; and where Mount Pilate’s height Casts o’er his glassy lake the darkness of his might.

Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter pass’d, And, from the bosom of the wilderness, There leapt a spirit and a power to cast The weight of bondage down—and bright and fast, As the clear waters, joyously and free, Burst from the desert rock, it rush’d at last, Through the far valleys; till the patriot three Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest-Sea.[235]

They link’d their hands, they pledged their stainless faith In the dread presence of attesting Heaven, They bound their hearts to suffering and to death, With the severe and solemn transport given To bless such vows. How nobly man had striven, How man might strive, and vainly strive, they knew, And call’d upon their God, whose arm had riven The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt’s might o’erthrew.

They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys lay Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted Into the bright mid air, had caught from day A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted, Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted, And full of hope. Not many suns had worn Their setting glory, ere from slumber started Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born— So far was heard the blast of freedom’s echoing horn!

The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came rending The frozen stillness which around them hung; From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending Gave answer, till the sky’s blue hollow rung; And the flame-signals through the midnight sprung From the Surennen rocks, like banners streaming To the far Seelisberg; whence light was flung On Grutli’s field, till all the red lake gleaming Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour seeming.

And the winds toss’d each summit’s blazing crest, As a host’s plumage; and the giant pines, Fell’d where they waved o’er crag and eagle’s nest, Heap’d up the flames. The clouds grew fiery signs, As o’er a city’s burning towers and shrines, Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown’d and bright, In Werner’s dwelling flow’d; through leafless vines From Walter’s hearth stream’d forth the festive light, And Erni’s blind old sire gave thanks to heaven that night.

Then on the silence of the snows there lay A Sabbath’s quiet sunshine—and its bell Fill’d the hush’d air awhile, with lonely sway; For the stream’s voice was chain’d by winter’s spell, The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and dell Rang forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee Peal’d from the mountain churches, with a swell Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea— For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps were free!