Part 2 — PART II.

Sweet is the gloom of forest shades, Their pillar’d walks and dim arcades, With all the thousand flowers that blow, A waste of loveliness, below. To him whose soul the world would fly, For nature’s lonely majesty: To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes, To lover, lost in fairy dreams, To hermit, whose prophetic thought By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught, And, in the visions of his rest, Held bright communion with the blest: ’Tis sweet, but solemn! There alike Silence and sound with awe can strike. The deep Eolian murmur made By sighing breeze and rustling shade, And cavern’d fountain gushing nigh, And wild-bee’s plaintive lullaby: Or the dead stillness of the bowers, When dark the summer-tempest lowers; When silent nature seems to wait The gathering thunder’s voice of fate; When the aspen scarcely waves in air, And the clouds collect for the lightning’s glare— Each, each alike is awful there, And thrills the soul with feelings high, As some majestic harmony. But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced Each green retreat in breathless haste— Young Ella—linger’d not to hear The wood-notes, lost on mourner’s ear. The shivering leaf, the breeze’s play, The fountain’s gush, the wild-bird’s lay— These charm not now; her sire she sought, With trembling frame, with anxious thought, And, starting if a forest deer But moved the rustling branches near, First felt that innocence may fear. She reach’d a lone and shadowy dell, Where the free sunbeam never fell; ’Twas twilight there at summer noon, Deep night beneath the harvest moon, And scarce might one bright star be seen Gleaming the tangled boughs between; For many a giant rock around Dark in terrific grandeur frown’d, And the ancient oaks, that waved on high, Shut out each glimpse of the blessèd sky. There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave, Ne’er to heaven’s beam one sparkle gave, And the wild flower, on its brink that grew, Caught not from day one glowing hue. ’Twas said, some fearful deed untold Had stain’d that scene in days of old; Tradition o’er the haunt had thrown A shade yet deeper than its own; And still, amidst th’ umbrageous gloom, Perchance above some victim’s tomb, O’ergrown with ivy and with moss, There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross, Which, haply, silent record bore Of guilt and penitence of yore. Who by that holy sign was kneeling, With brow unutter’d pangs revealing, Hands clasp’d convulsively in prayer, And lifted eyes and streaming hair, And cheek, all pale as marble mould, Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold? Was it some image of despair Still fix’d that stamp of woe to bear? —Oh! ne’er could Art her forms have wrought To speak such agonies of thought! Those deathlike features gave to view A mortal’s pangs too deep and true! Starting he rose, with frenzied eye, As Ella’s hurried step drew nigh; He turn’d, with aspect darkly wild, Trembling he stood—before his child! On, with a burst of tears, she sprung, And to her father’s bosom clung. “Away! what seek’st thou here?” he cried, “Art thou not now thine Ulric’s bride? Hence, leave me—leave me to await, In solitude, the storm of Fate; Thou know’st not what my doom may be, Ere evening comes in peace to thee.” “My father! shall the joyous throng Swell high for me the bridal song? Shall the gay nuptial board be spread, The festal garland bind my head, And thou in grief, in peril, roam, And make the wilderness thy home? No! I am here with thee to share All suffering mortal strength may bear; And, oh! whate’er thy foes decree, In life, in death, in chains, or free— Well, well I feel, in thee secure; Thy heart and hand alike are pure!” Then was there meaning in his look, Which deep that trusting spirit shook; So wildly did each glance express The strife of shame and bitterness,— As thus he spoke: “Fond dreams, oh hence! Is this the mien of Innocence? This furrow’d brow, this restless eye— Read thou this fearful tale, and fly! Is it enough? or must I seek For words, the tale of guilt to speak? Then be it so—I will not doom Thy youth to wither in its bloom; I will not see thy tender frame Bow’d to the earth with fear and shame. No! though I teach thee to abhor The sire so fondly loved before; Though the dread effort rend my breast, Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest! Oh! bitter penance! thou wilt turn Away in horror and in scorn; Thy looks, that still through all the past Affection’s gentlest beams have cast, As lightning on my heart will fall, And I must mark and bear it all! Yet though of life’s best ties bereaved, Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived! “I linger—let me speed the tale Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail. Why should I falter thus to tell What heaven so long hath known too well? Yes! though from mortal sight conceal’d, There hath a brother’s blood appeal’d! He died—’twas not where banners wave, And war-steeds trample on the brave; He died—it was in Holy Land— Yet fell he not by Paynim hand; He sleeps not with his sires at rest, With trophied shield and knightly crest; Unknown his grave to kindred eyes, —But I can tell thee where he lies! It was a wild and savage spot, But once beheld—and ne’er forgot! I see it now—that haunted scene My spirit’s dwelling still hath been; And he is there—I see him laid Beneath that palm-tree’s lonely shade. The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh Bears witness with its crimson dye! I see th’ accusing glance he raised, Ere that dim eye by death was glazed; —Ne’er will that parting look forgive! I still behold it—and I live! I live! from hope, from mercy driven, A mark for all the shafts of heaven! “Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won My birth-right; and my child, my son, Heir to high name, high fortune born, Was doom’d to penury and scorn, An alien midst his fathers’ halls, An exile from his native walls. Could I bear this? The rankling thought, Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought; Some serpent, kindling hate and guile, Lurk’d in my infant’s rosy smile, And when his accents lisp’d my name, They woke my inmost heart to flame! I struggled—are there evil powers That claim their own ascendant hours? —Oh! what should thine unspotted soul Or know or fear of their control? Why on the fearful conflict dwell? Vainly I struggled, and I fell— Cast down from every hope of bliss— Too well thou know’st to what abyss! “’Twas done!—that moment hurried by To darken all eternity. Years roll’d away, long evil years, Of woes, of fetters, and of fears; Nor aught but vain remorse I gain’d By the deep guilt my soul which stain’d. For, long a captive in the lands Where Arabs tread their burning sands, The haunted midnight of the mind Was round me while in chains I pined, By all forgotten, save by one Dread presence—which I could not shun. —How oft, when o’er the silent waste Nor path nor landmark might be traced, When slumbering by the watch-fire’s ray, The Wanderers of the Desert lay, And stars, as o’er an ocean shone, Vigil I kept—but not alone! That form, that image, from the dead, Still walk’d the wild with soundless tread! I’ve seen it in the fiery blast, I’ve seen it where the sand-storms pass’d; Beside the Desert’s fount it stood, Tinging the clear cold wave with blood; And e’en when viewless, by the fear Curdling my veins, I knew ’twas near! —Was near!—I feel th’ unearthly thrill, Its power is on my spirit still! A mystic influence, undefined, The spell, the shadow of my mind! “Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on; One last farewell, and then begone! Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow, And let me read thine aspect now! No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed Heaven’s justice to my crime decreed. Slow came the day that broke my chain, But I at length was free again; And freedom brings a burst of joy, E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy. I thought upon my own fair towers, My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers, And in a father’s visions, press’d Thee and thy brother to my breast. —’Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet Recall the moment when we met? Thy step to greet me lightly sprung, Thy arms around me fondly clung; Scarce aught than infant seraph less Seem’d thy pure childhood’s loveliness. But he was gone—that son for whom I rush’d on guilt’s eternal doom; He for whose sake alone were given My peace on earth, my hope in heaven— He met me not. A ruthless band, Whose name with terror fill’d the land, Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild Had reft the father of his child. Foes to my race, the hate they nursed, Full on that cherish’d scion burst. Unknown his fate.—No parent nigh, My boy! my first-born! didst thou die? Or did they spare thee for a life Of shame, of rapine, and of strife? Livest thou, unfriended, unallied, A wanderer lost, without a guide? Oh! to thy fate’s mysterious gloom Blest were the darkness of the tomb! “Ella! ’tis done—my guilty heart Before thee all unveil’d—depart! Few pangs ’twill cost thee now to fly From one so stain’d, so lost as I; Yet peace to thine untainted breast, E’en though it hate me!—be thou blest! Farewell! thou shalt not linger here— E’en now th’ avenger may be near: Where’er I turn, the foe, the snare, The dagger, may be ambush’d there; One hour—and haply all is o’er, And we must meet on earth no more. No, nor beyond!—to those pure skies Where thou shalt be, I may not rise; Heaven’s will for ever parts our lot, Yet, oh! my child! abhor me not! Speak once! to soothe this broken heart, Speak to me once! and then depart!” But still—as if each pulse were dead, Mute—as the power of speech were fled, Pale—as if life-blood ceased to warm The marble beauty of her form; On the dark rock she lean’d her head, That seem’d as there ’twere riveted, And dropt the hands, till then which press’d Her burning brow, or throbbing breast. There beam’d no tear-drop in her eye, And from her lip there breathed no sigh, And on her brow no trace there dwelt That told she suffer’d or she felt. All that once glow’d, or smiled, or beam’d, Now fix’d, and quench’d, and frozen seem’d; And long her sire, in wild dismay, Deem’d her pure spirit pass’d away. But life return’d. O’er that cold frame One deep convulsive shudder came; And a faint light her eye relumed, And sad resolve her mien assumed. But there was horror in the gaze, Which yet to his she dared not raise; And her sad accents, wild and low, As rising from a depth of woe, At first with hurried trembling broke, But gather’d firmness as she spoke. —“I leave thee not—whate’er betide, My footsteps shall not quit thy side; Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill, But yet thou art my father still! And, oh! if stain’d by guilty deed, For some kind spirit, tenfold need, To speak of heaven’s absolving love, And waft desponding thought above. Is there not power in mercy’s wave The blood-stain from thy soul to lave? Is there not balm to heal despair, In tears, in penitence, in prayer? My father! kneel at His pure shrine Who died to expiate guilt like thine, Weep—and my tears with thine shall blend, Pray—while my prayers with thine ascend, And, as our mingling sorrows rise, Heaven will relent, though earth despise!” “My child, my child! these bursting tears, The first mine eyes have shed for years, Though deepest conflicts they express, Yet flow not all in bitterness! Oh! thou hast bid a wither’d heart From desolation’s slumber start; Thy voice of pity and of love Seems o’er its icy depths to move E’en as a breeze of health, which brings Life, hope, and healing, on its wings. And there is mercy yet! I feel Its influence o’er my spirit steal; How welcome were each pang below, If guilt might be atoned by woe! Think’st thou I yet may be forgiven? Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven? Oh! if it yet avail to plead, If judgment be not yet decreed, Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry, Till pardon shall be seal’d on high! Yet, yet I shrink!—Will Mercy shed Her dews upon this fallen head? —Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free Descend forgiveness, won by thee!” They knelt—before the Cross, that sign Of love eternal and divine; That symbol, which so long hath stood A rock of strength, on time’s dark flood, Clasp’d by despairing hands, and laved By the warm tears of nations saved. In one deep prayer their spirits blent, The guilty and the innocent; Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth, Age, soil’d with every stain of earth, Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry, One sacrifice of agony. —Oh! blest, though bitter be their source— Though dark the fountain of remorse, Blest are the tears which pour from thence, Th’ atoning stream of penitence! And let not pity check the tide By which the heart is purified; Let not vain comfort turn its course, Or timid love repress its force! Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand, To bear luxuriance o’er the land; Forbid the life-restoring rains To fall on Afric’s burning plains; Close up the fount that gush’d to cheer The pilgrim o’er the waste who trode; But check thou not one holy tear Which Penitence devotes to God! Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne’er Was roused by huntsman’s bugle there— So rude, that scarce might human eye Sustain their dread sublimity— So awful, that the timid swain, Nurtured amidst their dark domain, Had peopled with unearthly forms Their mists, their forests, and their storms,— She, whose blue eye of laughing light Once made each festal scene more bright; Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest, Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest, By torrent wave and mountain brow, Is wandering as an outcast now, To share with Lindheim’s fallen chief His shame, his terror, and his grief. Hast thou not mark’d the ruin’s flower, That blooms in solitary grace, And, faithful to its mouldering tower, Waves in the banner’s place? From those gray haunts renown hath pass’d, Time wins his heritage at last; The day of glory hath gone by, With all its pomp and minstrelsy: Yet still the flower of golden hues There loves its fragrance to diffuse, To fallen and forsaken things With constancy unalter’d clings, And, smiling o’er the wreck of state, With beauty clothes the desolate. —E’en such was she, the fair-hair’d maid, In all her light of youth array’d, Forsaking every joy below To soothe a guilty parent’s woe, And clinging thus, in beauty’s prime, To the dark ruin made by crime. Oh! ne’er did heaven’s propitious eyes Smile on a purer sacrifice; Ne’er did young love, at duty’s shrine, More nobly brighter hopes resign! O’er her own pangs she brooded not, Nor sank beneath her bitter lot; No! that pure spirit’s lofty worth Still rose more buoyantly from earth, And drew from an eternal source Its gentle, yet triumphant force: Roused by affliction’s chastening might To energies more calmly bright, Like the wild harp of airy sigh, Woke by the storm to harmony! He that in mountain-holds hath sought A refuge for unconquer’d thought, A charter’d home, where Freedom’s child Might rear her altars in the wild, And fix her quenchless torch on high, A beacon for Eternity; Or they, whose martyr spirits wage Proud war with Persecution’s rage, And to the deserts bear the faith That bids them smile on chains and death; Well may they draw, from all around, Of grandeur clothed in form and sound, From the deep power of earth and sky, Wild nature’s might of majesty, Strong energies, immortal fires, High hopes, magnificent desires! But dark, terrific, and austere, To him doth nature’s mien appear, Who midst her wilds would seek repose From guilty pangs and vengeful foes! For him the wind hath music dread, A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead; The forest’s whisper breathes a tone Appalling, as from worlds unknown; The mystic gloom of wood and cave Is fill’d with shadow’s of the grave; In noon’s deep calm the sunbeams dart A blaze that seems to search his heart; The pure, eternal stars of night Upbraid him with their silent light; And the dread spirit, which pervades And hallows earth’s most lonely shades, In every scene, in every hour, Surrounds him with chastising power— With nameless fear his soul to thrill, Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still! ’Twas the chilly close of an autumn day, And the leaves fell thick o’er the wanderers’ way; The rustling pines, with a hollow sound, Foretold the tempest gathering round; And the skirts of the western clouds were spread With a tinge of wild and stormy red, That seem’d, through the twilight forest bowers Like the glare of a city’s blazing towers. But they, who far from cities fled, And shrunk from the print of human tread, Had reach’d a desert scene unknown, So strangely wild, so deeply lone, That a nameless feeling, unconfess’d And undefined, their souls oppress’d. Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl’d, Lay like the ruins of a world, Left by an earthquake’s final throes In deep and desolate repose— Things of eternity whose forms Bore record of ten thousand storms! While, rearing its colossal crest In sullen grandeur o’er the rest, One, like a pillar, vast and rude, Stood monarch of the solitude. Perchance by Roman conqueror’s hand Th’ enduring monument was plann’d; Or Odin’s sons, in days gone by, Had shaped its rough immensity, To rear, midst mountain, rock, and wood, A temple meet for rites of blood. But they were gone, who might have told That secret of the times of old; And there, in silent scorn it frown’d, O’er all its vast coevals round. Darkly those giant masses lower’d, Countless and motionless they tower’d; No wild-flower o’er their summits hung, No fountain from their caverns sprung; Yet ever on the wanderers’ ear Murmur’d a sound of waters near, With music deep of lulling falls, And louder gush, at intervals. Unknown its source—nor spring nor stream Caught the red sunset’s lingering gleam, But ceaseless, from its hidden caves, Arose that mystic voice of waves.[199] Yet bosom’d midst that savage scene, One chosen spot of gentler mien Gave promise to the pilgrim’s eye Of shelter from the tempest nigh. Glad sight! the ivied cross it bore, The sculptured saint that crown’d its door: Less welcome now were monarch’s dome, Than that low cell, some hermit’s home. Thither the outcasts bent their way, By the last lingering gleam of day; When from a cavern’d rock, which cast Deep shadows o’er them as they pass’d, A form, a warrior form of might, As from earth’s bosom, sprang to sight. His port was lofty—yet the heart Shrunk from him with recoiling start; His mien was youthful—yet his face Had nought of youth’s ingenuous grace; Nor chivalrous nor tender thought Its traces on his brow had wrought Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye, But calm and cold severity, A spirit haughtily austere, Stranger to pity as to fear. It seem’d as pride had thrown a veil O’er that dark brow and visage pale, Leaving the searcher nought to guess, All was so fix’d and passionless. He spoke—and they who heard the tone Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown. “I’ve sought thee far in forest bowers, I’ve sought thee long in peopled towers, I’ve borne th’ dagger of th’ Unknown Through scenes explored by me alone; My search is closed—nor toils nor fears Repel the servant of the Seers; We meet—’tis vain to strive or fly: Albert of Lindheim, thou must die!” Then with clasp’d hands the fair-hair’d maid Sank at his feet, and wildly pray’d:— “Stay, stay thee! sheath that lifted steel! Oh! thou art human, and canst feel! Hear me! if e’er ’twas thine to prove The blessing of a parent’s love; By thine own father’s hoary hair, By her who gave thee being, spare! Did they not, o’er thy infant years, Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears! Young warrior! thou wilt heed my prayers, As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs!” But cold th’ Avenger’s look remain’d, His brow its rigid calm maintain’d: “Maiden! ’tis vain—my bosom ne’er Was conscious of a parent’s care; The nurture of my infant years Froze in my soul the source of tears; ’Tis not for me to pause or melt, Or feel as happier hearts have felt. Away! the hour of fate goes by: Thy prayers are fruitless—he must die!” “Rise, Ella! rise!” with steadfast brow The father spoke—unshrinking now, As if from heaven a martyr’s strength Had settled on his soul at length: “Kneel thou no more, my noble child, Thou by no taint of guilt defiled; Kneel not to man!—for mortal prayer, Oh! when did mortal vengeance spare? Since hope of earthly aid is flown, Lift thy pure hands to heaven alone, And know, to calm thy suffering heart, My spirit is resign’d to part. Trusting in Him who reads and knows This guilty breast, with all its woes. Rise! I would bless thee once again, Be still, be firm—for all is vain!” And she was still. She heard him not— Her prayers were hush’d, her pangs forgot; All thought, all memory pass’d away, Silent and motionless she lay, In a brief death, a blest suspense Alike of agony and sense. She saw not when the dagger gleam’d In the last red light from the west that stream’d; She mark’d not when the life-blood’s flow Came rushing to the mortal blow; While, unresisting, sank her sire, Yet gather’d firmness to expire, Mingling a warrior’s courage high With a penitent’s humility. And o’er him there th’ Avenger stood, And watch’d the victim’s ebbing blood, Still calm, as if his faithful hand Had but obey’d some just command, Some power whose stern, yet righteous will He deem’d it virtue to fulfil, And triumph’d, when the palm was won, For duty’s task austerely done. But a feeling dread and undefined, A mystic presage of the mind, With strange and sudden impulse ran Chill through the heart of the dying man; And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom breath, And it seem’d as fear suspended death, And nature from her terrors drew Fresh energy and vigour new. “Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne’er Was conscious of a parent’s care; Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood’s years, Froze in thy soul the source of tears: The time will come, when thou, with me, The judgment throne of God wilt see— Oh! by thy hopes of mercy, then, By His blest love who died for men, By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow, Avenger! I adjure thee now! To him who bleeds beneath thy steel, Thy lineage and thy name reveal. And haste thee! for his closing ear Hath little more on earth to hear— Haste! for the spirit, almost flown, Is lingering for thy words alone.” Then first a shade, resembling fear, Pass’d o’er th’ Avenger’s mien austere; A nameless awe his features cross’d, Soon in their haughty coldness lost. “What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild, And bid them tell thee of their child! Ask the rude winds, and angry skies, Whose tempests were his lullabies! His chambers were the cave and wood, His fosterers men of wrath and blood; Outcasts alike of earth and heaven, By wrongs to desperation driven! Who, in their pupil, now could trace The features of a nobler race? Yet such was mine!—if one who cast A look of anguish o’er the past, Bore faithful record on the day When penitent in death he lay. But still deep shades my prospects veil; He died—and told but half the tale. With him it sleeps—I only know Enough for stern and silent woe, For vain ambition’s deep regret, For hopes deceived, deceiving yet, For dreams of pride, that vainly tell How high a lot had suited well The heir of some illustrious line, Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!” Then swift through Albert’s bosom pass’d One pang, the keenest and the last, Ere with his spirit fled the fears, The sorrows, and the pangs of years; And, while his gray hairs swept the dust, Faltering he murmur’d, “Heaven is just! For thee that deed of guilt was done, By thee avenged, my son! my son!” —The day was closed—the moonbeam shed Light on the living and the dead, And as through rolling clouds it broke, Young Ella from her trance awoke— Awoke to bear, to feel, to know E’en more than all an orphan’s woe. Oh! ne’er did moonbeam’s light serene With beauty clothe a sadder scene! There, cold in death, the father slept— There, pale in woe, the daughter wept! Yes! she might weep—but one stood nigh, With horror in his tearless eye, That eye which ne’er again shall close In the deep quiet of repose; No more on earth beholding aught Save one dread vision, stamp’d on thought. But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid His deeper woe had scarce survey’d, Till his wild voice reveal’d a tale Which seem’d to bid the heavens turn pale! He call’d her, “Sister!” and the word In anguish breathed, in terror heard, Reveal’d enough: all else were weak— That sound a thousand pangs could speak. He knelt beside that breathless clay, Which, fix’d in utter stillness, lay— Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace, Each line of that unconscious face; Knelt, till his eye could bear no more Those marble features to explore; Then, starting, turning, as to shun The image thus by Memory won, A wild farewell to her he bade, Who by the dead in silence pray’d; And, frenzied by his bitter doom, Fled thence—to find all earth a tomb! Days pass’d away—and Rhine’s fair shore In the light of summer smiled once more; The vines were purpling on the hill, And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still. There came a bark up the noble stream, With pennons that shed a golden gleam, With the flash of arms, and the voice of song, Gliding triumphantly along; For warrior-forms were glittering there, Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air; And as the tones of oar and wave Their measured cadence mingling gave, ’Twas thus th’ exulting chorus rose, While many an echo swell’d the close:— “From the fields where dead and dying On their battle-bier are lying, Where the blood unstanch’d is gushing, Where the steed uncheck’d is rushing, Trampling o’er the noble-hearted, Ere the spirit yet be parted; Where each breath of heaven is swaying Knightly plumes and banners playing, And the clarion’s music swelling Calls the vulture from his dwelling; He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine! To his own fair woods, enclosing Vales in sunny peace reposing, Where his native stream is laving Banks, with golden harvests waving, And the summer light is sleeping On the grape, through tendrils peeping; To the halls where harps are ringing, Bards the praise of warriors singing, Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly, Joyous voices mingling sweetly; Where the cheek of mirth is glowing, And the wine-cup brightly flowing, He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!” He came—he sought his Ella’s bowers, He traversed Lindheim’s lonely towers; But voice and footstep thence had fled, As from the dwellings of the dead, And the sounds of human joy and woe Gave place to the moan of the wave below. The banner still the rampart crown’d, But the tall rank grass waved thick around Still hung the arms of a race gone by In the blazon’d halls of their ancestry, But they caught no more, at fall of night, The wavering flash of the torch’s light, And they sent their echoes forth no more To the Minnesinger’s[200] tuneful lore, For the hands that touch’d the harp were gone, And the hearts were cold that loved its tone; And the soul of the chord lay mute and still, Save when the wild wind bade it thrill, And woke from its depths a dream-like moan, For life, and power, and beauty gone. The warrior turn’d from that silent scene, Where a voice of woe had welcome been; And his heart was heavy with boding thought, As the forest-paths alone he sought. He reach’d a convent’s fane, that stood Deep bosom’d in luxuriant wood; Still, solemn, fair—it seem’d a spot Where earthly care might be all forgot, And sounds and dreams of heaven alone To musing spirit might be known. And sweet e’en then were the sounds that rose On the holy and profound repose. Oh! they came o’er the warrior’s breast Like a glorious anthem of the blest; And fear and sorrow died away Before the full majestic lay. He enter’d the secluded fane, Which sent forth that inspiring strain; He gazed—the hallow’d pile’s array Was that of some high festal day; Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound, Flowers of all scents were strew’d around; The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh, Blest on the altar to smile and die; And a fragrant cloud from the censer’s breath Half hid the sacred pomp beneath; And still the peal of choral song Swell’d the resounding aisles along; Wakening, in its triumphant flow, Deep echoes from the graves below. Why, from its woodland birthplace torn, Doth summer’s rose that scene adorn? Why breathes the incense to the sky? Why swells th’ exulting harmony? —And see’st thou not yon form, so light It seems half floating on the sight, As if the whisper of a gale, That did but wave its snowy veil, Might bear it from the earth afar, A lovely but receding star? Know that devotion’s shrine e’en now Receives that youthful vestal’s vow— For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise, A jubilee of sacrifice! Mark yet a moment! from her brow Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow, Ere yet a darker mantle hide The charms to heaven thus sanctified: Stay thee! and catch their parting gleam, That ne’er shall fade from memory’s dream. A moment! oh! to Ulric’s soul, Poised between hope and fear’s control, What slow, unmeasured hours went by, Ere yet suspense grew certainty. It came at length. Once more that face Reveal’d to man its mournful grace; A sunbeam on its features fell, As if to bear the world’s farewell; And doubt was o’er. His heart grew chill: ’Twas she—though changed—’twas Ella still! Though now her once-rejoicing mien Was deeply, mournfully serene; Though clouds her eye’s blue lustre shaded, And the young cheek beneath had faded, Well, well he knew the form, which cast Light on his soul through all the past! ’Twas with him on the battle-plain, ’Twas with him on the stormy main: ’Twas in his visions, when the shield Pillow’d his head on tented field; ’Twas a bright beam that led him on Where’er a triumph might be won— In danger as in glory nigh, An angel-guide to victory! She caught his pale bewilder’d gaze Of grief half lost in fix’d amaze. Was it some vain illusion, wrought By frenzy of impassion’d thought? Some phantom, such as Grief hath power To summon in her wandering hour? No! it was he! the lost, the mourn’d— Too deeply loved, too late return’d! —A fever’d blush, a sudden start, Spoke the last weakness of her heart; ’Twas vanquish’d soon—the hectic red A moment flush’d her check, and fled. Once more serene—her steadfast eye Look’d up as to Eternity; Then gazed on Ulric with an air, That said—the home of Love is there! Yes! there alone it smiled for him, Whose eye before that look grew dim. Not long ’twas his e’en thus to view The beauty of its calm adieu; Soon o’er those features, brightly pale, Was cast th’ impenetrable veil; And, if one human sigh were given By the pure bosom vow’d to heaven, ’Twas lost, as many a murmur’d sound Of grief, “not loud, but deep,” is drown’d, In hymns of joy, which proudly rise To tell the calm untroubled skies That earth hath banish’d care and woe, And man holds festivals below!

Call it not loneliness to dwell In woodland shade or hermit dell, Or the deep forest to explore, Or wander Alpine regions o’er; For nature there all joyous reigns, And fills with life her wild domains:— A bird’s light wing may break the air, A wave, a leaf, may murmur there; A bee the mountain flowers may seek, A chamois bound from peak to peak; An eagle, rushing to the sky, Wake the deep echoes with his cry; And still some sound, thy heart to cheer, Some voice though not of man is near. But he, whose weary step hath traced Mysterious Afric’s awful waste— Whose eye Arabia’s wilds hath view’d, Can tell thee what is solitude! It is to traverse lifeless plains, Where everlasting stillness reigns, And billowy sands and dazzling sky Seem boundless as infinity! It is to sink, with speechless dread, In scenes unmeet for mortal tread, Sever’d from earthly being’s trace, Alone amidst eternal space! ’Tis noon—and fearfully profound, Silence is on the desert round; Alone she reigns, above, beneath, With all the attributes of death! No bird the blazing heaven may dare, No insect bide the scorching air; The ostrich, though of sunborn race, Seeks a more shelter’d dwelling-place; The lion slumbers in his lair, The serpent shuns the noontide glare. But slowly wind the patient train Of camels o’er the blasted plain, Where they and man may brave alone The terrors of the burning zone. —Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high, As a volcano, flame the sky; Shrink not, though as a furnace glow The dark-red seas of sand below; Though not a shadow, save your own, Across the dread expanse is thrown. Mark! where your feverish lips to lave, Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave! Urge your tired camels on, and take Your rest beside yon glistening lake; Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring, And fan your brows with lighter wing. Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide, Reflects the date-tree on its side— Speed on! pure draughts and genial air, And verdant shade, await you there. Oh, glimpse of heaven! to him unknown That hath not trod the burning zone! Forward they press—they gaze dismay’d— The waters of the desert fade! Melting to vapours that elude The eye, the lip, they vainly woo’d.[201] What meteor comes? A purple haze Hath half obscured the noontide rays:[202] Onward it moves in swift career, A blush upon the atmosphere. Haste, haste! avert th’ impending doom, Fall prostrate! ’tis the dread Simoom! Bow down your faces—till the blast On its red wing of flame hath pass’d, Far bearing o’er the sandy wave The viewless Angel of the Grave. It came—’tis vanish’d—but hath left The wanderers e’en of hope bereft; The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame. Faint with despondence, worn with toil, They sink upon the burning soil, Resign’d, amidst those realms of gloom, To find their deathbed and their tomb.[203] But onward still!—yon distant spot Of verdure can deceive you not; Yon palms, which tremulously seem’d Reflected as the waters gleam’d, Along th’ horizon’s verge display’d, Still rear their slender colonnade— A landmark, guiding o’er the plain The Caravan’s exhausted train. Fair is that little Isle of Bliss The desert’s emerald oasis! A rainbow on the torrent’s wave, A gem embosom’d in the grave, A sunbeam on a stormy day Its beauty’s image might convey! Beauty, in horror’s lap that sleeps, While silence round her vigil keeps. Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid To slumber in th’ acacia shade: Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise Their aromatic breath diffuse; Where softer light the sunbeams pour Through the tall palm and sycamore; And the rich date luxuriant spreads Its pendant clusters o’er your heads. Nature once more, to seal your eyes, Murmurs her sweetest lullabies; Again each heart the music hails Of rustling leaves and sighing gales: And oh! to Afric’s child how dear The voice of fountains gushing near! Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams Of waving groves and rippling streams! Far be the serpent’s venom’d coil From the brief respite won by toil; Far be the awful shades of those Who deep beneath the sands repose— The hosts, to whom the desert’s breath Bore swift and stern the call of death. Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade The freshness of the acacia shade, But gales of heaven your spirits bless, With life’s best balm—Forgetfulness! Till night from many an urn diffuse The treasures of her world of dews. The day hath closed—the moon on high Walks in her cloudless majesty. A thousand stars to Afric’s heaven Serene magnificence have given— Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame Shines forth eternally the same. Blest be their beams, whose holy light Shall guide the camel’s footsteps right, And lead, as with a track divine, The pilgrim to his prophet’s shrine! —Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu! Again your lonely march pursue, While airs of night are freshly blowing, And heavens with softer beauty glowing. ’Tis silence all: the solemn scene Wears, at each step, a ruder mien; For giant-rocks, at distance piled, Cast their deep shadows o’er the wild. Darkly they rise—what eye hath view’d The caverns of their solitude? Away! within those awful cells The savage lord of Afric dwells! Heard ye his voice?—the lion’s roar Swells as when billows break on shore. Well may the camel shake with fear, And the steed pant—his foe is near. Haste! light the torch, bid watchfires throw Far o’er the waste, a ruddy glow; Keep vigil—guard the bright array Of flames that scare him from his prey; Within their magic circle press, O wanderers of the wilderness! Heap high the pile, and by its blaze, Tell the wild tales of elder days,— Arabia’s wond’rous lore, that dwells On warrior deeds and wizard spells; Enchanted domes, mid scenes like these, Rising to vanish with the breeze; Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed Their light where mortal may not tread; And spirits, o’er whose pearly halls Th’ eternal billow heaves and falls. —With charms like these, of mystic power, Watchers! beguile the midnight hour. Slowly that hour hath roll’d away, And star by star withdraws its ray. Dark children of the sun! again Your own rich orient hails his reign. He comes, but veil’d—with sanguine glare Tinging the mists that load the air; Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, Th’ approaching hurricane proclaim. ’Tis death’s red banner streams on high— Fly to the rocks for shelter!—fly! Lo! dark’ning o’er the fiery skies, The pillars of the desert rise! On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, A giant-host, the heavens concealing, They move, like mighty genii-forms, Towering immense midst clouds and storms. Who shall escape!—with awful force The whirlwind bears them on their course; They join, they rush resistless on— The landmarks of the plain are gone; The steps, the forms, from earth effaced, Of those who trod the burning waste! All whelm’d, all hush’d!—none left to bear Sad record how they perish’d there! No stone their tale of death shall tell— The desert guards its mysteries well; And o’er th’ unfathom’d sandy deep, Where low their nameless relics sleep, Oft shall the future pilgrim tread, Nor know his steps are on the dead.

’Twas noon, and Afric’s dazzling sun on high With fierce resplendence fill’d th’ unclouded sky; No zephyr waved the palm’s majestic head, And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread; While desolate, beneath a blaze of light, Silent and lonely, as at dead of night, The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes Had strew’d their precious marble o’er the plains; Dark weeds and grass the column had o’ergrown, The lizard bask’d upon the altar stone; Whelm’d by the ruins of their own abodes, Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods; While near—dread offspring of the burning day! Coil’d midst forsaken halls the serpent lay. There came an exile, long by fate pursued, To shelter in that awful solitude. Well did that wanderer’s high yet faded mien Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene:— Shadow’d, not veil’d, by locks of wintry snow, Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow’d brow; Time had not quench’d the terrors of his eye, Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency; While the deep meaning of his features told Ages of thought had o’er his spirit roll’d, Nor dimm’d the fire that might not be controll’d; And still did power invest his stately form, Shatter’d, but yet unconquer’d, by the storm. —But slow his step—and where, not yet o’erthrown, Still tower’d a pillar midst the waste alone, Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid, To slumber in its solitary shade. He slept—and darkly, on his brief repose, Th’ indignant genius of the scene arose. Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread Mysterious gloom around his crownless head, Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain, The kingly shadow seem’d to lift his chain, Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn, And his eye kindled with immortal scorn! “And sleep’st thou, Roman?” cried his voice austere; “Shall son of Latium find a refuge here? Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate, When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate! Go! with her children’s flower, the free, the brave, People the silent chambers of the grave: So shall the course of ages yet to be, More swiftly waft the day, avenging me! “Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come, I hear a voice that prophesies her doom; I see the trophies of her pride decay, And her long line of triumphs pass away, Lost in the depths of time—while sinks the star That led her march of heroes from afar! Lo! from the frozen forests of the North, The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth! Who shall awake the mighty?—will thy woe, City of thrones! disturb the realms below? Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries Summon their shadowy legions to arise, Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls! —Barbarians revel in their ancient halls, And their lost children bend the subject knee, Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free. Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high, A creature of the empyreal—thou, whose eye Was lightning to the earth—whose pinion waved In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved; Sink from thy heavens! for glory’s noon is o’er, And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more! Closed is thy regal course—thy crest is torn, And thy plume banish’d from the realms of morn. The shaft hath reach’d thee!—rest with chiefs and kings, Who conquer’d in the shadow of thy wings; Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey, And share thy glorious heritage of day! But darker years shall mingle with the past, And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. O’er the seven hills I see destruction spread, And Empire’s widow veils with dust her head. Her gods forsake each desolated shrine, Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine: Midst fallen palaces she sits alone, Calling heroic shades from ages gone, Or bids the nations midst her deserts wait To learn the fearful oracles of Fate! “Still sleep’st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise! Wake to obey th’ avenging Destinies! Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country’s blood Shall swell and darken Tiber’s yellow flood! My children’s manès call—awake! prepare The feast they claim!—exult in Rome’s despair! Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries, Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies; Let carnage revel e’en her shrines among, Spare not the valiant, pity not the young! Haste! o’er her hills the sword’s libation shed, And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!” The vision flies—a mortal step is near, Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer’s ear; He starts, he wakes to woe—before him stands Th’ unwelcome messenger of harsh commands, Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief To seek on other shores a home for grief. —Silent the wanderer sat—but on his cheek The burning glow far more than words might speak; And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke Language where all th’ indignant soul awoke, Till his deep thought found voice: then, calmly stern, And sovereign in despair, he cried, “Return! Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath been!”

The moonbeam, quivering o’er the wave, Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill, The wild wind slumbers in its cave, And heaven is cloudless—earth is still! The pile that crowns yon savage height With battlements of Gothic might, Rises in softer pomp array’d, Its massy towers half lost in shade, Half touch’d with mellowing light! The rays of night, the tints of time, Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone, O’er its rude strength and mien sublime, A placid smile have thrown. And far beyond, where wild and high, Bounding the pale blue summer sky, A mountain vista meets the eye, Its dark, luxuriant woods assume A pencil’d shade, a softer gloom: Its jutting cliffs have caught the light, Its torrents glitter through the night, While every cave and deep recess Frowns in more shadowy awfulness. Scarce moving on the glassy deep Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep; But darting from its side, How swiftly does its boat design A slender, silvery, waving line Of radiance o’er the tide! No sound is on the summer seas, But the low dashing of the oar, And faintly sighs the midnight breeze Through woods that fringe the rocky shore. That boat has reach’d the silent bay— The dashing oar has ceased to play; The breeze has murmur’d and has died In forest shades, on ocean’s tide. No step, no tone, no breath of sound Disturbs the loneliness profound; And midnight spreads o’er earth and main A calm so holy and so deep, That voice of mortal were profane To break on nature’s sleep! It is the hour for thought to soar High o’er the cloud of earthly woes; For rapt devotion to adore— For passion to repose; And virtue to forget her tears, In visions of sublimer spheres! For oh! those transient gleams of heaven, To calmer, purer spirits given, Children of hallow’d peace, are known In solitude and shade alone! Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon, To blow beneath the midnight moon, The garish world they will not bless, But only live in loneliness! Hark! did some note of plaintive swell Melt on the stillness of the air? Or was it fancy’s powerful spell That woke such sweetness there? For wild and distant it arose, Like sounds that bless the bard’s repose, When in lone wood, or mossy cave, He dreams beside some fountain wave, And fairy worlds delight the eyes Wearied with life’s realities. Was it illusion? Yet again Rises and falls th’ enchanted strain, Mellow, and sweet, and faint— As if some spirit’s touch had given The soul of sound to harp of heaven To soothe a dying saint! Is it the mermaid’s distant shell, Warbling beneath the moonlit wave? —Such witching tones might lure full well The seaman to his grave! Sure from no mortal touch ye rise, Wild, soft, aërial melodies! —Is it the song of woodland-fay From sparry grot, or haunted bower? Hark! floating on, the magic lay Draws near yon ivied tower! Now nearer still, the listening ear May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear; And accents low, as if in fear, Thus murmur, half suppress’d:— “Awake! the moon is bright on high, The sea is calm, the bark is nigh, The world is hush’d to rest!” Then sinks the voice—the strain is o’er, Its last low cadence dies along the shore. Fair Bertha hears th’ expected song, Swift from her tower she glides along; No echo to her tread awakes, Her fairy step no slumber breaks; And, in that hour of silence deep, While all around the dews of sleep O’erpower each sense, each eyelid steep, Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear, Her dark eye glistens with a tear. Half-wavering now, the varying cheek And sudden pause her doubts bespeak, The lip now flush’d, now pale as death, The trembling frame, the fluttering breath! Oh! in that moment, o’er her soul What struggling passions claim control! Fear, duty, love, in conflict high, By turns have won th’ ascendency; And as, all tremulously bright, Streams o’er her face the beam of night, What thousand mix’d emotions play O’er that fair face, and melt away. Like forms whose quick succession gleams O’er fancy’s rainbow-tinted dreams; Like the swift glancing lights that rise Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies, And traverse ocean o’er; So in that full, impassion’d eye The changeful meanings rise and die, Just seen—and then no more! But oh! too short that pause. Again Thrills to her heart that witching strain:— “Awake! the midnight moon is bright: Awake! the moments wing their flight; Haste! or they speed in vain!”—— O call of Love! thy potent spell O’er that weak heart prevails too well; The “still small voice” is heard no more That pleaded duty’s cause before, And fear is hush’d, and doubt is gone, And pride forgot, and reason flown! Her cheek, whose colour came and fled, Resumes its warmest, brightest red, Her step its quick elastic tread, Her eye its beaming smile! Through lonely court and silent hall, Flits her light shadow o’er the wall; And still that low, harmonious call Melts on her ear the while! Though love’s quick ear alone could tell The words its accents faintly swell:— “Awake! while yet the lingering night And stars and seas befriend our flight: Oh! haste, while all is well!”—— The halls, the courts, the gates, are past, She gains the moonlit beach at last. Who waits to guide her trembling feet? Who flies the fugitive to greet? He, to her youthful heart endear’d By all it e’er had hoped and fear’d, Twined with each wish, with every thought Each day-dream fancy e’er had wrought, Whose tints portray with flattering skill What brighter worlds alone fulfil! —Alas! that aught so fair should fly Thy blighting wand, Reality! A chieftain’s mien her Osbert bore, A pilgrim’s lowly robes he wore— Disguise that vainly strove to hide Bearing and glance of martial pride; For he in many a battle-scene, On many a rampart breach had been; Had sternly smiled at danger nigh, Had seen the valiant bleed and die, And proudly rear’d on hostile tower, Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower, Britannia’s banner high! And though some ancient feud had taught His Bertha’s sire to loathe his name, More noble warrior never fought For glory’s prize or England’s fame. And well his dark, commanding eye, And form and step of stately grace, Accorded with achievements high, Soul of emprise and chivalry, Bright name, and generous race! His cheek, embrown’d by many a sun, Tells a proud tale of glory won, Of vigil, march, and combat rude, Valour, and toil, and fortitude! E’en while youth’s earliest blushes threw Warm o’er that cheek their vivid hue, His gallant soul, his stripling form, Had braved the battle’s rudest storm; When England’s conquering archers stood, And dyed thy plain, Poitiers! with blood, When shiver’d axe, and cloven shield, And shatter’d helmet, strew’d the field, And France around her king in vain Had marshall’d valour’s noblest train— In that dread strife his lightning eye Had flash’d with transport keen and high, And midst the battle’s wildest tide, Throbb’d his young heart with hope and pride. Alike that fearless heart could brave Death on the war-field or the wave; Alike in tournament or fight, That ardent spirit found delight! Yet oft, midst hostile scenes afar, Bright o’er his soul a vision came, Rising like some benignant star, On stormy seas or plains of war, To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame, The heart that throbb’d to Bertha’s name! And midst the wildest rage of fight, And in the deepest calm of night, To her his thoughts would wing their flight With fond devotion warm; Oft would those glowing thoughts portray Some home, from tumults far away, Graced with that angel form! And now his spirit fondly deems Fulfill’d its loveliest, dearest dreams! Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow, In minstrel garb attends the chief? The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow Reveals a shade of grief. Sorrow and time have touch’d his face With mournful yet majestic grace, Soft as the melancholy smile Of sunset on some ruin’d pile! —It is the bard, whose song had power To lure the maiden from her tower— The bard, whose wild inspiring lays, E’en in gay childhood’s earliest days, First woke, in Osbert’s kindling breast, The flame that will not be represt, The pulse that throbs for praise! Those lays had banish’d from his eye The bright soft tears of infancy, Had soothed the boy to calm repose, Had hush’d his bosom’s earliest woes; And when the light of thought awoke, When first young reason’s day-spring broke, More powerful still, they bade arise His spirit’s burning energies! Then the bright dream of glory warm’d, Then the loud pealing war-song charm’d, The legends of each martial line, The battle-tales of Palestine: And oft, since then, his deeds had proved Themes of the lofty lays he loved! Now, at triumphant love’s command, Since Osbert leaves his native land, Forsaking glory’s high career For her than glory far more dear; Since hope’s gay dream and meteor ray To distant regions point his way, That there Affection’s hands may dress A fairy bower for happiness; That fond devoted bard, though now Time’s wintery garland wreathes his brow, Though quench’d the sunbeam of his eye, And fled his spirit’s buoyancy, And strength and enterprise are past, Still follows constant to the last! Though his sole wish was but to die Midst the calm scenes of days gone by, And all that hallows and endears The memory of departed years— Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined To those loved scenes his pensive mind; Ah! what can tear the links apart That bind his chieftain to his heart? What smile but his with joy can light The eye obscured by age’s night? Last of a loved and honour’d line, Last tie to earth in life’s decline, Till death its lingering spark shall dim, That faithful eye must gaze on him! Silent and swift, with footstep light, Haste on those fugitives of night. They reach the boat—the rapid oar Soon wafts them from the wooded shore: The bark is gain’d! A gallant few, Vassals of Osbert, form its crew; The pennant, in the moonlight beam, With soft suffusion glows; From the white sail a silvery gleam Falls on the wave’s repose; Long shadows undulating play, From mast and streamer, o’er the bay; But still so hush’d the summer air, They tremble, midst that scene so fair, Lest morn’s first beam behold them there. —Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night! From river wave, or mountain height, Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers, By haunted spring in forest bowers; Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell, In amber grot, where mermaids dwell, And cavern’d gems their lustre throw O’er the red sea-flowers’ vivid glow? Where treasures, not for mortal gaze, In solitary splendour blaze, And sounds, ne’er heard by mortal ear, Swell through the deep’s unfathom’d sphere? What grove of that mysterious world Holds thy light wing in slumber furl’d? Awake! o’er glittering seas to rove: Awake! to guide the bark of love! Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon Shall fade the bright propitious moon; Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, E’en now—but lo! the rustling sail Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale! The bark glides on—their fears are o’er; Recedes the bold romantic shore, Its features mingling fast. Gaze, Bertha! gaze: thy lingering eye May still each lovely scene descry Of years for ever past! There wave the woods, beneath whose shade With bounding step thy childhood play’d, Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns, Free as their native birds and fawns; Listening the sylvan sounds, that float On each low breeze, midst dells remote— The ringdove’s deep melodious moan, The rustling deer in thickets lone; The wild-bee’s hum, the aspen’s sigh, The wood-stream’s plaintive harmony. Dear scenes of many a sportive hour, There thy own mountains darkly tower! Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude But thou hast loved its solitude! No path so wild but thou hast known, And traced its rugged course alone! The earliest wreath that bound thy hair Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there. There in the day-spring of thy years, Undimm’d by passions or by tears, Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye Wander’d o’er ocean, earth, or sky, While the wild breeze that round thee blew, Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue. Pure as the skies that o’er thy head Their clear and cloudless azure spread, Pure as that gale whose light wing drew Its freshness from the mountain dew, Glow’d thy young heart with feelings high, A heaven of hallow’d ecstasy! Such days were thine! ere love had drawn A cloud o’er that celestial dawn! As the clear dews in morning’s beam With soft reflected colouring stream, Catch every tint of eastern gem To form the rose’s diadem, But vanish when the noontide hour Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower— Thus in thy soul each calm delight, Like morn’s first dew-drops, pure and bright, Fled swift from passion’s blighting fire, Or linger’d only to expire! Spring on thy native hills again Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise, And call forth, in each grassy glen, Her brightest emerald dyes! There shall the lonely mountain rose, Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose; Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream Shall sparkle in the summer beam; The birch, o’er precipice and cave, Its feathery foliage still shall wave, The ash midst rugged clefts unveil Its coral clusters to the gale, And autumn shed a warmer bloom O’er the rich heath and glowing broom. But thy light footstep there no more Each path, each dingle shall explore. In vain may smile each green recess, —Who now shall pierce its loneliness? The stream through shadowy glens may stray, —Who now shall trace its glistening way? In solitude, in silence deep, Shrined midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep, No lute’s wild swell again shall rise To wake her mystic melodies. All soft may blow the mountain air, —It will not wave thy graceful hair! The mountain rose may bloom and die, —It will not meet thy smiling eye! But like those scenes of vanish’d days, Shall others ne’er delight; Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze, Yet seem not half so bright! O’er the dim woodlands’ fading hue Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high; Gaze on, while yet ’tis thine to view That home of infancy! Heed not the night-dew’s chilling power, Heed not the sea-wind’s coldest hour, But pause and linger on the deck, Till of those towers no trace, no speck, Is gleaming o’er the main; For when the mist of morn shall rise, Blending the sea, the shore, the skies, That home, once vanish’d from thine eyes, Shall bless them ne’er again! There the dark tales and songs of yore First with strange transport thrill’d thy soul, E’en while their fearful mystic lore From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole. There, while thy father’s raptured ear Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear, And in his eye the trembling tear Reveal’d his spirit’s trance; How oft, those echoing halls along, Thy thrilling voice has swell’d the song— Tradition wild of other days, Or troubadour’s heroic lays, Or legend of romance! Oh! many an hour has there been thine, That memory’s pencil oft shall dress In softer shades, and tints that shine In mellow’d loveliness! While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears, Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret, The sunshine of thine early years, Scarce deem’d so radiant—till it set! The cloudless peace, unprized till gone, The bliss, till vanish’d hardly known! On rock and turret, wood and hill, The fading moonbeams linger still, Still, Bertha! gaze on yon gray tower, At evening’s last and sweetest hour, While varying still, the western skies Flush’d the clear seas with rainbow dyes, Whose warm suffusions glow’d and pass’d, Each richer, lovelier, than the last. How oft, while gazing on the deep, That seem’d a heaven of peace to sleep, As if its wave, so still, so fair, More frowning mien might never wear, The twilight calm of mental rest Would steal in silence o’er thy breast, And wake that dear and balmy sigh That softly breathes the spirit’s harmony! —Ah! ne’er again shall hours to thee be given Of joy on earth—so near allied to heaven! Why starts the tear to Bertha’s eye? Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh? Is there a grief his voice, his smile, His words, are fruitless to beguile? —Oh! bitter to the youthful heart, That scarce a pang, a care has known, The hour when first from scenes we part, Where life’s bright spring has flown! Forsaking, o’er the world to roam, That little shrine of peace—our home! E’en if delighted fancy throw O’er that cold world, her brightest glow, Painting its untried paths with flowers, That will not live in earthly bowers, (Too frail, too exquisite, to bear One breath of life’s ungenial air;) E’en if such dreams of hope arise As heaven alone can realise, Cold were the breast that would not heave One sigh, the home of youth to leave; Stern were the heart that would not swell To breathe life’s saddest word—farewell! Though earth has many a deeper woe, Though tears more bitter far must flow, That hour, whate’er our future lot, That first fond grief, is ne’er forgot! Such was the pang of Bertha’s heart, The thought, that bade the tear-drop start; And Osbert by her side Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell Nature’s fond struggle told too well; And days of future bliss portray’d, And love’s own eloquence essay’d, To soothe his plighted bride! Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells, In that sweet land to which they fly; The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells Of blooming Italy. For he had roved a pilgrim there, And gazed on many a spot so fair It seem’d like some enchanted grove, Where only peace, and joy, and love, Those exiles of the world, might rove, And breathe its heavenly air; And, all unmix’d with ruder tone, Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone! Far from the frown of stern control, That vainly would subdue the soul, There shall their long-affianced hands Be join’d in consecrated bands. And in some rich, romantic vale, Circled with heights of Alpine snow, Where citron-woods enrich the gale, And scented shrubs their balm exhale, And flowering myrtles blow; And midst the mulberry boughs on high Weaves the wild vine her tapestry; On some bright streamlet’s emerald side, Where cedars wave in graceful pride, Bosom’d in groves, their home shall rise, A shelter’d bower of paradise! Thus would the lover soothe to rest With tales of hope her anxious breast; Nor vain that dear enchanting lore Her soul’s bright visions to restore, And bid gay phantoms of delight Float in soft colouring o’er her sight. ——O Youth! sweet May-morn, fled so soon, Far brighter than life’s loveliest noon, How oft thy spirit’s buoyant power Will triumph, e’en in sorrow’s hour Prevailing o’er regret! As rears its head th’ elastic flower Though the dark tempest’s recent shower Hang on its petals yet! Ah! not so soon can hope’s gay smile The aged bard to joy beguile; Those silent years that steal away The cheek’s warm rose, the eye’s bright ray, Win from the mind a nobler prize, E’en all its buoyant energies! For him the April days are past, When grief was but a fleeting cloud; No transient shade will sorrow cast, When age the spirit’s might has bow’d! And, as he sees the land grow dim, That native land now lost to him, Fix’d are his eyes, and clasp’d his hands, And long in speechless grief he stands: So desolately calm his air, He seems an image wrought to bear The stamp of deep, though hush’d despair. Motion and life no sign bespeaks, Save that the night-breeze, o’er his cheeks, Just waves his silvery hair! Nought else could teach the eye to know He was no sculptured form of woe! Long gazing o’er the dark’ning flood, Pale in that silent grief he stood, Till the cold moon was waning fast, And many a lovely star had died, And the gray heavens deep shadows cast Far o’er the slumbering tide; And, robed in one dark solemn hue, Arose the distant shore to view. Then, starting from his trance of woe, Tears, long suppress’d, in freedom flow, While thus his wild and plaintive strain Blends with the murmur of the main.

“Thou setting moon! when next thy rays Are trembling on the shadowy deep, The land, now fading from thy gaze, These eyes in vain shall weep; And wander o’er the lonely sea, And fix their tearful glance on thee— On thee! whose light so softly gleams Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams. “But midst those ancient groves, no more Shall I thy quivering lustre hail; Its plaintive strain my harp must pour To swell a foreign gale. The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke When its full tones their stillness broke, Deserted now, shall hear alone The brook’s wild voice, the wind’s mysterious moan. “And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls, Left by your lord to slow decay, Soon shall the trophies on your walls Be mouldering fast away! There shall no choral songs resound, There shall no festal board be crown’d; But ivy wreathe the silent gate, And all be hush’d, and cold, and desolate. “No banner from the stately tower Shall spread its blazon’d folds on high; There the wild brier and summer flower, Unmark’d, shall wave and die. Home of the mighty! thou art lone, The noonday of thy pride is gone, And, midst thy solitude profound, A step shall echo like unearthly sound! “From thy cold hearths no festal blaze Shall fill the hall with ruddy light, Nor welcome with convivial rays Some pilgrim of the night. But there shall grass luxuriant spread, As o’er the dwellings of the dead; And the deep swell of every blast Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past. “And I—my joy of life is fled, My spirit’s power, my bosom’s glow; The raven locks that graced my head, Wave in a wreath of snow! And where the star of youth arose I deem’d life’s lingering ray should close, And those loved trees my tomb o’ershade, Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play’d. “Vain dream! that tomb in distant earth Shall rise, forsaken and forgot; And thou, sweet land that gavest me birth! A grave must yield me not. Yet, haply, he for whom I leave Thy shores, in life’s dark winter eve, When cold the hand, and closed the lays, And mute the voice he loved to praise, O’er the hush’d harp one tear may shed, And one frail garland o’er the minstrel’s bed!”

Twas night in Babylon: yet many a beam, Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high, Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates’ stream With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky, Whose azure knows no cloud: each whisper’d sigh Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers, Bore deepening tones of joy and melody, O’er an illumined wilderness of flowers; And the glad city’s voice went up from all her towers. But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall, Where midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band, High at the stately midnight festival, Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury’s hand Had shower’d around all treasures that expand Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour The sunbeams back; all sweets of many a land Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore —But mortal pride look’d on, and still demanded more. With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain! The lord of nations spoke,—and forth were brought The spoils of Salem’s devastated fane. Thrice-holy vessels!—pure from earthly stain, And set apart, and sanctified to Him Who deign’d within the oracle to reign, Reveal’d yet shadow’d; making noonday dim, To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim. They came, and louder peal’d the voice of song, And pride flash’d brighter from the kindling eye; And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng, In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy The Rock of Zion! Fill the nectar high, High in the cups of consecrated gold! And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die, And bid the censers of the temple hold Offerings to Babel’s gods, the mighty ones of old! Peace!—is it but a phantom of the brain, Thus shadow’d forth, the senses to appall, Yon fearful vision? Who shall gaze again To search its cause? Along the illumined wall, Startling yet riveting the eyes of all, Darkly it moves,—a hand, a human hand, O’er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall, In silence tracing, as a mystic wand, Words all unknown, the tongue of some far-distant land! There are pale cheeks around the regal board, And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low, And fitful starts!—the wine, in triumph pour’d, Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow, The waving censer drops to earth—and lo! The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth, Trembles before a shadow! Say not so! —The child of dust, with guilt’s foreboding sight, Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite! “But haste ye!—bring Chaldea’s gifted seers, The men of prescience! Haply to their eyes, Which track the future through the rolling spheres, Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.” They come—the readers of the midnight skies, They that gave voice to visions—but in vain! Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies, It hath no language midst the starry train, Earth has no gifted tongue heaven’s mysteries to explain. Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, And other inspiration!—one of those Who on the willows hung their captive lyres, And sat and wept, where Babel’s river flows. His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose Of his pure features half o’erawed the mind; Telling of inward mysteries—joys and woes In lone recesses of the soul enshrined; Depths of a being seal’d and sever’d from mankind. Yes!—what was earth to him, whose spirit pass’d Time’s utmost bounds? on whose unshrinking sight Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast Their full resplendence? Majesty and might Were in his dreams; for him the veil of light Shrouding heaven’s inmost sanctuary and throne, The curtain of th’ unutterably bright, Was raised!—to him, in fearful splendour shown, Ancient of Days! e’en Thou madest thy dread presence known. He spoke—the shadows of the things to come Pass’d o’er his soul:—“O King, elate in pride! God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom— The one, the living God, by thee defied! He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried, Hath weigh’d, and found thee wanting. ’Tis decreed The conqueror’s hands thy kingdom shall divide, The stranger to thy throne of power succeed! Thy days are full: they come,—the Persian and the Mede!” There fell a moment’s thrilling silence round— A breathless pause!—the hush of hearts that beat, And limbs that quiver. Is there not a sound, A gathering-cry, a tread of hurrying feet? —’Twas but some echo in the crowded street, Of far-heard revelry; the shout, the song, The measured dance to music wildly sweet, That speeds the stars their joyous course along— Away! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng! Peace yet again! Hark! steps in tumult flying, Steeds rushing on, as o’er a battle-field! The shouts of hosts exulting or defying, The press of multitudes that strive or yield! And the loud startling clash of spear and shield, Sudden as earthquake’s burst; and, blent with these, The last wild shriek of those whose doom is seal’d In their full mirth!—all deepening on the breeze, As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas! And nearer yet the trumpet’s blast is swelling, Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry; And, lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling, Death—bursting on the halls of revelry! Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die, The sword hath raged through joy’s devoted train; Ere one bright star be faded from the sky, Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane; Empire is lost and won—Belshazzar with the slain.[204]

... “Thou strivest nobly, When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk; And o’er thy fall, if it be so decreed, Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears ... ... Fame I look not for; But to sustain, in Heaven’s all-seeing eye, Before my fellow men, in mine own sight, With graceful virtue and becoming pride, The dignity and honour of a man, Thus station’d as I am, I will do all That man may do.” Miss Baillie’s “Constantine Palæologus.”

The fires grew pale on Rome’s deserted shrines, In the dim grot the Pythia’s voice had died; —Shout for the City of the Constantines, The rising city of the billow-side, The City of the Cross!—great ocean’s bride, Crown’d with her birth she sprung! Long ages past, And still she look’d in glory o’er the tide, Which at her feet barbaric riches cast, Pour’d by the burning East, all joyously and fast.

Long ages past!—they left her porphyry halls Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold Broider’d her mantle, and her castled walls Frown’d in their strength; yet there were signs which told The days were full. The pure high faith of old Was changed; and on her silken couch of sleep She lay, and murmur’d if a rose-leaf’s fold Disturb’d her dreams; and call’d her slaves to keep Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her o’er the deep.

But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling Free hearts and fearless only may exclude; ’Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, Breaks on the soft repose by luxury woo’d! There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude Where the lamps glitter and the wine-cup flows; And darker hues have stain’d the marble, strew’d With the fresh myrtle and the short-lived rose; And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm’s roar Through Ida’s giant-pines! Across the seas A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore From Tempe’s haunted river to the shore Of the reed-crown’d Eurotas; when, of old, Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o’er Th’ indignant wave, which would not be controll’d, But past the Persian’s chain in boundless freedom roll’d.

And it is thus again! Swift oars are dashing The parted waters, and a light is cast On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashing Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast. There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, A music of the deserts, wild and deep, Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are pass’d Where low midst Ilion’s dust her conquerors sleep, O’ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.

War from the West!—the snows on Thracian hills Are loosed by Spring’s warm breath; yet o’er the lands Which Hæmus girds, the chainless mountain-rills Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. War from the East!—midst Araby’s lone sands, More lonely now the few bright founts may be, While Ismael’s bow is bent in warrior-hands Against the Golden City of the sea.[205] —Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylæ!

Hear yet again, ye mighty!—Where are they Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown’d, Leap’d up in proudly beautiful array, As to a banquet gathering, at the sound Of Persia’s clarion? Far and joyous round, From the pine forests, and the mountain snows, And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound Of the bright waves, at freedom’s voice they rose! —Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb’s repose?

They slumber with their swords!—the olive shades In vain are whispering their immortal tale! In vain the spirit of the past pervades The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale. Yet must thou wake, though all unarm’d and pale, Devoted City! Lo! the Moslem’s spear, Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear! —Awake! and summon those, who yet perchance may hear!

Be hush’d, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping! Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high, And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping In their proud graves of sainted chivalry, Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh To Syrian gales! The sons of each brave line From their baronial halls shall hear your cry, And seize the arms which flash’d round Salem’s shrine, And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine!

All still, all voiceless!—and the billow’s roar Alone replies! Alike their soul is gone Who shared the funeral-feast on Œta’s shore, And theirs that o’er the field of Ascalon Swell’d the crusaders’ hymn! Then gird thou on Thine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hour Which waits thee ere the day’s fierce work is done With a strong heart: so may thy helmet tower Unshiver’d through the storm, for generous hope is power!

But linger not,—array thy men of might! The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes. Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming bright, And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near, Around thy walls the sons of battle close; Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear, Which the deep grave alone is charter’d not to hear!

Away! bring wine, bring odours, to the shade[206] Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high! Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade! Snatch every brief delight,—since we must die!— Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks! gone by, For feast in vine-wreath’d bower or pillar’d hall; Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky, And deep and hollow is the tambour’s call, And from the startled hand th’ untasted cup will fall.

The night—the glorious oriental night, Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven, With its clear stars! The red artillery’s light, Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven, To the still firmament’s expanse hath given Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower Starts wildly forth; and now the air is riven With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds lower, Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow’d hour.

Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with these A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth To faith and courage! From luxurious ease A gallant few have started! O’er the seas, From the Seven Towers,[207] their banner waves its sign; And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze, Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was thine; Thy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine.

Was Rome thy parent? Didst thou catch from her The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye? —That city of the throne and sepulchre Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die! Heir of the Cæsars! did that lineage high, Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass’d With its long march of spectred imagery,[208] Th’ heroic mantle o’er thy spirit cast? Thou! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last!

Vain dreams! Upon that spirit hath descended Light from the living Fountain, whence each thought Springs pure and holy! In that eye is blended A spark, with earth’s triumphal memories fraught, And, far within, a deeper meaning, caught From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust, Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought (Though through its veil seen darkly from the dust) In realms where Time no more hath power upon the just.

Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain, And in the sun’s bright face, and midst th’ array Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain, The Roman cast his glittering mail away,[209] And while a silence, as of midnight, lay O’er breathless thousands at his voice who started, Call’d on the unseen terrific powers that sway The heights, the depths, the shades; then, fearless-hearted, Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed!

But then, around him as the javelins rush’d, From earth to heaven swell’d up the loud acclaim; And, ere his heart’s last free libation gush’d, With a bright smile, the warrior caught his name Far-floating on the winds! And Victory came, And made the hour of that immortal deed A life, in fiery feeling! Valour’s aim Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed Was to be Rome’s high star!—He died—and had his meed.

But praise—and dearer, holier praise be theirs, Who, in the stillness and the solitude Of hearts press’d earthwards by a weight of cares, Uncheer’d by Fame’s proud hope, th’ ethereal food Of restless energies, and only view’d By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, Is on the soul’s dark places; have subdued And vow’d themselves with strength till then unknown, To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone.

Theirs be the bright and sacred names, enshrined Far in the bosom! for their deeds belong, Not to the gorgeous faith which charm’d mankind With its rich pomp of festival and song, Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng; But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries Man’s hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong Than storm or earthquake’s voice; for thence arise All that mysterious world’s unseen sublimities.

Well might thy name, brave Constantine! awake Such thought, such feeling!—But the scene again Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break Through the red sulphurous mists: the camp, the plain, The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane, With its bright cross fix’d high in crowning grace; Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main, And, circling all with arms, that turban’d race— The sun, the desert, stamp’d in each dark haughty face.

Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streaming Red o’er the waters![210] Hail, deliverers, hail! Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming, Is Hope’s own smile! They crowd the swelling sail, On, with the foam, the sunbeam and the gale, Borne, as a victor’s car! The batteries pour Their clouds and thunders; but the rolling veil Of smoke floats up the exulting winds before! —And oh! the glorious burst of that bright sea and shore!

The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe’s, Asia’s coast, All throng’d! one theatre for kingly war! A monarch, girt with his barbaric host, Points o’er the beach his flashing scimitar! Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar, Hands waving banners o’er each battlement, Decks, with their serried guns, array’d to bar The promised aid: but hark! a shout is sent Up from the noble barks!—the Moslem line is rent!

On, on through rushing flame and arrowy shower, The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way; And, with the shadows of the vesper hour, Furl’d their white sails, and anchor’d in the bay. Then were the streets with song and torch-fire gay, Then the Greek wines flow’d mantling in the light Of festal halls; and there was joy!—the ray Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright— The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight.

For vain that feeble succour! Day by day Th’ imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweep Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play, Comes powerful, as when heaven unbinds the deep! —Man’s heart is mightier than the castled steep, Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled; Man’s thoughts work darkly in such hours, and sleep Flies far; and in their mien, the walls who tread, Things by the brave untold may fearfully be read!

It was a sad and solemn task, to hold Their midnight-watch on that beleaguer’d wall! As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roll’d, A sound of fate was in its rise and fall; The heavy clouds were as an empire’s pall, The giant shadows of each tower and fane Lay like the grave’s; a low mysterious call Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain, A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain.

For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing, The Thracian drum, the Tartar’s drowsy song; Might almost hear the soldan’s banner swaying, The watchword mutter’d in some eastern tongue. Then flash’d the gun’s terrific light along The marble streets, all stillness—not repose; And boding thoughts came o’er them, dark and strong; For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those Who see their number’d hours fast pressing to the close.

But strength is from the Mightiest! There is one Still in the breach and on the rampart seen, Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun, And tells in silence how the night hath been In kingly halls a vigil: yet serene The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye; And there is that in his collected mien, To which the hearts of noble men reply With fires, partaking not this frame’s mortality!

Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate To pass o’er earth in brightness but alone; High power was made their birthright, to create A thousand thoughts responsive to their own! A thousand echoes of their spirit’s tone Start into life, where’er their path may be, Still following fast; as when the wind hath blown O’er Indian groves,[211] a wanderer wild and free, Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree!

And it is thus with thee! thy lot is cast On evil days, thou Cæsar!—yet the few, That set their generous bosom to the blast Which rocks thy throne—the fearless and the true, Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew The free devotion of the years gone by, When from bright dreams th’ ascendant Roman drew Enduring strength! States vanish—ages fly— But leave one task unchanged—to suffer and to die!

These are our nature’s heritage. But thou, The crown’d with empire! thou wert call’d to share A cup more bitter. On thy fever’d brow The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, Which long had pass’d away; alone to bear The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came As a strong billow in their weight of care, And with all this to smile! For earth-born frame These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown to fame!

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field, On the red scaffold; and where’er, in sight Of human eyes, the human soul is steel’d To deeds that seem as of immortal might, Yet are proud Nature’s! But her meteor-light Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not where In silence, and in secret, and in night, The noble heart doth wrestle with despair, And rise more strong than death from its unwitness’d prayer.

Men have been firm in battle; they have stood With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains, And won the birthright of their hearths with blood, And died rejoicing, midst their ancient fanes, That so their children, undefiled with chains, Might worship there in peace. But they that stand When not a beacon o’er the wave remains, Link’d but to perish with a ruin’d land, Where Freedom dies with them—call these a martyr-band!

But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance, Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, It is but as the Roman’s stoic glance Fell on that stage, where man’s last agony Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die, Reck’d not which champion; but prepared the strain, And bound the bloody wreath of victory, To greet the conqueror; while, with calm disdain, The vanquish’d proudly met the doom he met in vain.

The hour of Fate comes on! and it is fraught With this of Liberty, that now the need Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought, And clothe the heart, which still beneath must bleed, With Hope’s fair-seeming drapery. We are freed From tasks like these by misery: one alone Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed, Prince, watcher, wearied one! when thou hast shown How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave and throne.

The signs are full. They are not in the sky, Nor in the many voices of the air, Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high Toss their wild spears: no meteor banners glare, No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair; And yet the signs are full: too truly seen In the thinn’d ramparts, in the pale despair Which lends one language to a people’s mien, And in the ruin’d heaps where wall and towers have been!

It is a night of beauty: such a night As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade, Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright, Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and glade To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade Their forest haunts; a night to rove alone Where the young leaves by vernal winds are sway’d, And the reeds whisper with a dreamy tone Of melody that seems to breathe from worlds unknown;

A night to call from green Elysium’s bowers The shades of elder bards; a night to hold Unseen communion with th’ inspiring powers That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old; A night for mourners, o’er the hallow’d mould, To strew sweet flowers—for revellers to fill And wreathe the cup—for sorrows to be told Which love hath cherish’d long. Vain thoughts! be still! It is a night of fate, stamp’d with Almighty Will!

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rending The ancient summits in its dread career! And with vast billows wrathfully contending, And with dark clouds o’ershadowing every sphere! But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with fear, Passing to lay the sovereign cities low, Alike in His omnipotence is near, When the soft winds o’er spring’s green pathway blow, And when His thunders cleave the monarch mountain’s brow.

The heavens in still magnificence look down On the hush’d Bosphorus, whose ocean stream Sleeps with its paler stars: the snowy crown Of far Olympus,[212] in the moonlight gleam, Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan’s dream Throng’d it with gods, and bent th’ adoring knee; —But that is past—and now the One Supreme Fills not alone those haunts, but earth, air, sea, And Time, which presses on to finish his decree.

Olympus, Ida, Delphi! ye, the thrones And temples of a visionary might, Brooding in clouds above your forest zones, And mantling thence the realms beneath with night: Ye have look’d down on battles—Fear and Flight, And arm’d Revenge, all hurrying past below!— But there is yet a more appalling sight For earth prepared than e’er, with tranquil brow, Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and snow!

Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, And Asia’s hills re-echo’d to a cry Of savage mirth! Wild horn and war-steeds’ tramp Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry, The clash of desert-spears! Last night the sky A hue of menace and of wrath put on, Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and high, And countless as the flames in ages gone, Streaming to heaven’s bright queen from shadowy Lebanon!

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep Which wraps those Eastern thousands? Yes! perchance Along yon moonlit shore and dark-blue deep, Bright are their visions with the Houri’s glance, And they behold the sparkling fountains dance Beneath the bowers of paradise that shed Rich odours o’er the faithful; but the lance, The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers spread, Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the dead.

May this be sleep, this hush?—A sleepless eye Doth hold its vigil midst that dusky race! One that would scan th’ abyss of destiny E’en now is gazing on the skies to trace, In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space, Fate’s mystic pathway: they the while, serene, Walk in their beauty; but Mohammed’s face Kindles beneath their aspect,[213] and his mien, All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen.

Oh! wild presumption of a conqueror’s dream, To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined In depths of blue infinitude, and deem They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind O’er fields of blood! But with the restless mind It hath been ever thus! and they that weep For worlds to conquer, o’er the bounds assign’d To human search, in daring pride would sweep, As o’er the trampled dust wherein they soon must sleep.

But ye! that beam’d on Fate’s tremendous night, When the storm burst o’er golden Babylon; And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light O’er burning Salem, by the Roman won; And ye, that calmly view’d the slaughter done In Rome’s own streets, when Alaric’s trumpet-blast Rang through the Capitol: bright spheres! roll on! Still bright, though empires fall; and bid man cast His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the past.