Part 2 — CAROLINE. PART II. TO THE EVENING STAR.

Gem of the crimson-coloured Even, Companion of retiring day, Why at the closing gates of Heaven, Belovèd star dost thou delay? So fair thy pensile beauty burns, When soft the tear of twilight flows; So due thy plighted love returns, To chambers brighter than the rose, To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, So kind a star thou seem’st to be, Sure some enamoured orb above Descends and burns to meet with thee. Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, When all unheavenly passions fly, Chased by the soul-subduing power Of Love’s delicious witchery. O! sacred to the fall of day, Queen of propitious stars appear, And early rise and long delay, When Caroline herself is here! Shine on her chosen green resort, Whose trees the sunward summit crown, And wanton flowers that well may court An angel’s feet to tread them down. Shine on her sweetly-scented road, Thou star of evening’s purple dome, That lead’st the nightingale abroad, And guid’st the pilgrim to his home. Shine, where my charmer’s sweeter breath Embalms the soft exhaling dew, Where dying winds a sigh bequeath To kiss the cheek of rosy hue. Where, winnowed by the gentle air, Her silken tresses darkly flow, And fall upon her brow so fair, Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day’s decline, In converse sweet, to wander far, O bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my ruling star!

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you ’tis true, Yet, wildings of nature I dote upon you, For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teemed around me with faery delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon’s note, Made music that sweetened the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: Of old ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell. E’en now what affections the violet awakes; What loved little islands twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore; What landscapes I read in the primrose’s looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks In the vetches that tangled their shore. Earth’s cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear Had scathed my existence’s bloom; Once I welcome you more in life’s passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

Hail to thy face and odours, glorious Sea! ’Twere thanklessness in me to bless thee not, Great beauteous Being! in whose breath and smile My heart beats calmer, and my very mind Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world! Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din To me is peace, thy restlessness repose. E’en gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes With all the darling field-flowers in their prime, And gardens haunted by the nightingales’ Long trills and gushing ecstacies of song For these wild headlands and the sea-mew’s clang— With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea, I long not to o’erlook earth’s fairest glades And green savannahs—Earth has not a plain So boundless or so beautiful as thine; The eagle’s vision cannot take it in: The lightning’s wing too weak to sweep its space Sinks half-way o’er it like a wearied bird: It is the mirror of the stars, where all Their hosts within the concave firmament, Gay marching to the music of the spheres, Can see themselves at once. Nor on the stage Of rural landscape are there lights and shades Of more harmonious dance and play than thine. How vividly this moment brightens forth, Between grey parallel and leaden breadths. A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, Flushed like the rainbow, or the ringdove’s neck, And giving to the glancing sea-bird’s wing The semblance of a meteor. Mighty sea! Cameleon-like thou changest, but there’s love In all thy change, and constant sympathy With yonder Sky—thy Mistress; from her brow Thou tak’st thy moods and wear’st her colours on Thy faithful bosom; morning’s milky white, Noon’s sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve; And all thy balmier hours, fair Element, Have such divine complexion—crispèd smiles, Luxuriant heavings, and sweet whisperings, That little is the wonder Love’s own Queen From thee of old was fabled to have sprung— Creation’s common! which no human power Can parcel or enclose; the lordliest floods And cataracts that the tiny hands of man Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew To thee that couldst subdue the Earth itself, And brook’st commandment from the Heavens alone For marshalling thy waves— Yet, potent sea! How placidly thy moist lips speak e’en now Along yon sparkling shingles. Who can be So fanciless as to feel no gratitude That power and grandeur can be so serene, Soothing the home-bound navy’s peaceful way, And rocking e’en the fisher’s little bark As gently as a mother rocks her child?— The inhabitants of other worlds behold Our orb more lucid for thy spacious share On earth’s rotundity; and is he not A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man Who sees not or who seeing has no joy In thy magnificence? What though thou art Unconscious and material, thou canst reach The inmost immaterial mind’s recess, And with thy tints and motion stir its chords To music, like the light on Memnon’s lyre! The Spirit of the Universe in thee Is visible; thou hast in thee the life— The eternal, graceful, and majestic life— Of nature and the natural human heart Is therefore bound to thee with holy love. Earth has her gorgeous towns; the earth-circling sea Has spires and mansions more amusive still— Men’s volant homes that measure liquid space On wheel or wing. The chariot of the land With pained and panting steeds and clouds of dust Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair Careerers with the foam beneath their bows, Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by day Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the night, Moored as they cast the shadows of their masts In long array, or hither flit and yond Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights, Like spirits on the darkness of the deep. There is a magnet-like attraction in These waters to the imaginative power That links the viewless with the visible, And pictures things unseen. To realms beyond Yon highway of the world my fancy flies, When by her tall and triple mast we know Some noble voyager that has to woo The trade-winds and to stem the ecliptic surge. The coral groves—the shores of conch and pearl, Where she will cast her anchor and reflect Her cabin-window lights on warmer waves, And under planets brighter than our own: The nights of palmy isles, that she will see Lit boundless by the fire-fly—all the smells Of tropic fruits that will regale her—all The pomp of nature, and the inspiriting Varieties of life she has to greet, Come swarming o’er the meditative mind. True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has His darker hints; but where’s the element That chequers not its usefulness to man. With casual terror? Scathes not Earth sometimes Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang Of bells for their own ruin, strews them flat As riddled ashes—silent as the grave? Walks not Contagion on the Air itself? I should—old Ocean’s Saturnalian days And roaring nights of revelry and sport With wreck and human woe—be loth to sing; For they are few and all their ills weigh light Against his sacred usefulness, that bids Our pensile globe revolve in purer air. Here Morn and Eve with blushing thanks receive Their fresh’ning dews, gay fluttering breezes cool Their wings to fan the brow of fevered climes, And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn For showers to glad the earth. Old Ocean was Infinity of ages ere we breathed Existence—and he will be beautiful When all the living world that sees him now Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. Quelling from age to age the vital throb In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate The pulse that swells in his stupendous breast, Or interdict his minstrelsy to sound In thund’ring concert with the quiring winds; But long as Man to parent Nature owns Instinctive homage, and in times beyond The power of thought to reach, bard after bard Shall sing thy glory, Beatific Sea!

And have I lived to see thee sword in hand Uprise again immortal Polish Land!— Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind, And leaves the tri-color in shade behind;— A theme for uninspirèd lips too strong; That swells my heart beyond the power of song:— Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith, Ah! yet your fate’s suspense arrests my breath; Whilst, envying bosoms bared to shot and steel, I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel. Poles! with what indignation I endure Th’ half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor; Poor! is it England mocks you with her grief, That hates, but dares not chide, th’ Imperial Thief? France with her soul beneath a Bourbon’s thrall, And Germany that has no soul at all,— States quailing at the giant overgrown, Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone? No, ye are rich in fame e’en whilst ye bleed: We cannot aid you—we are poor indeed! In Fate’s defiance—in the world’s great eye, Poland has won her Immortality! The Butcher, should he reach her bosom now, Could tear not Glory’s garland from her brow; Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renowned, And all her ashes would be holy ground! But turn, my soul, from presages so dark: Great Poland’s spirit is a deathless spark That’s fanned by Heaven to mock the Tyrant’s rage: She, like the eagle, will renew her age, And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on,— Another Athens after Marathon,— Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine, Bright as her arms that now in battle shine. Come—should the heavenly shock my life destroy And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy; Come but the day when Poland’s fight is won— And on my grave-stone shine the morrow’s sun— The day that sees Warsaw’s cathedral glow With endless ensigns ravished from the foe,— Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks, Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks, The scutcheoned walls of high heraldic boast, The odorous altar’s elevated host, The organ sounding through the aisle’s long glooms, The mighty dead seen sculptured o’er their tombs; (John, Europe’s saviour—Poniatowski’s fair Resemblance—Kosciusko’s shall be there;) The tapered pomp—the halleluiah’s swell, Shall o’er the soul’s devotion cast a spell, Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast’s glance, And all the scene becomes a waking trance. Should Fate put far—far off that glorious scene, And gulfs of havoc interpose between, Imagine not, ye men of every clime, Who act, or by your sufferance share the crime— Your brother Abel’s blood shall vainly plead Against the “deep damnation” of the deed. Germans ye view its horror and disgrace With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face. Is Allemagne profound in science, lore, And minstrel art?—her shame is but the more To doze and dream by governments oppressed, The spirit of a book-worm in each breast. Well can ye mouth fair Freedom’s classic line, And talk of Constitutions o’er your wine: But all your vows to break the tyrant’s yoke Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke: Heavens! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads And mystic metaphysics of your heads, To show the self-same grave, Oppression delves For Poland’s rights, is yawning for yourselves! See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France, Has vaulted on his barb and couched the lance, France turns from her abandoned friends afresh,[88] And soothes the Bear that prowls for patriot flesh, Buys, ignominious purchase! short repose, With dying curses and the groans of those That served, and loved, and put in her their trust. Frenchmen! the dead accuse you from the dust— Brows laurelled—bosoms marked with many a scar For France—that wore her Legion’s noblest star, Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death On Gallic honour; and this broken faith Has robbed you more of Fame—the life of life,— Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife! And what of England—Is she steeped so low In poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so, That we must sit much wroth, but timorous more, With murder knocking at our neighbour’s door!— Not murder masked and cloaked with hidden knife, Whose owner owes the gallows life for life; But Public Murder!—that with pomp and gaud, And royal scorn of Justice walks abroad To wring more tears and blood than e’er were wrung By all the culprits Justice ever hung! We read the diademed Assassin’s vaunt, And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant With useless indignation—sigh, and frown, But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down. If but a doubt hung o’er the grounds of fray, Or trivial rapine stopped the world’s highway; Were this some common strife of States embroiled;— Britannia on the spoiler and the spoiled Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe, Still honourably wear her olive wreath But this is Darkness combating with Light: Earth’s adverse Principles for empire fight: Oppression, that has belted half the globe, Far as his knout could reach or dagger probe, Holds reeking o’er our brother freemen slain That dagger—shakes it at us in disdain; Talks big to Freedom’s states of Poland’s thrall, And, trampling one, contemns them one and all. My Country! colours not thy once proud brow At this effront?—Hast thou not fleets enow With Glory’s streamer, lofty as the lark, Gay fluttering o’er each thunder-bearing bark, To warm th’ Insulter’s seas with barb’rous blood, And interdict his flag from Ocean’s flood? E’en now far off the sea-cliff, where I sing, I see, my Country, and my Patriot King! Your ensign glad the deep. Becalmed and slow A war-ship rides; while Heaven’s prismatic bow Uprisen behind her on th’ horizon’s base, } Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and stays, } And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze. } My soul accepts the omen; Fancy’s eye Has sometimes a veracious augury: The Rainbow types Heaven’s promise to my sight; The Ship, Britannia’s interposing Might! But if there should be none to aid you, Poles, Ye’ll but to prouder pitch wind up your souls, Above example, pity, praise or blame, To sow and reap a boundless field of Fame. Ask aid no more from Nations that forget Your championship—old Europe’s mighty debt. Though Poland (Lazarus-like) has burst the gloom, She rises not a beggar from the tomb: In Fortune’s frown, on Danger’s giddiest brink, Despair and Poland’s name must never link. All ills have bounds—plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood: E’en power can spill but bounded sums of blood. States caring not what freedom’s price may be, May late or soon, but must at last be free; For body-killing tyrants cannot kill The public soul—the hereditary will That downward as from sire to son it goes, By shifting bosoms more intensely glows: Its heir-loom is the heart, and slaughtered men Fight fiercer in their orphans o’er again. Poland recasts—though rich in heroes old,— Her men in more and more heroic mould: Her Eagle-ensign best among mankind Become, and types her eagle-strength of mind: Her praise upon my faltering lips expires: Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres!

In the deep blue of eve, Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, Or the lark took his leave Of the skies and the sweet setting sun, I climbed to yon heights, Where the Norman encamped him of old,[89] With his bowmen and knights, And his banner all burnished with gold. At the Conqueror’s side There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, In pavilion wide; And they chaunted the deeds of Roland. Still the ramparted ground With a vision my fancy inspires, And I hear the trump sound, As it marshalled our Chivalry’s sires. On each turf of that mead Stood the captors of England’s domains, That ennobled her breed And high-mettled the blood of her veins. Over hauberk and helm As the sun’s setting splendour was thrown, Thence they looked o’er a realm— And to-morrow beheld it their own.

Loved Voyager! whose pages had a zest More sweet than fiction to my wond’ring breast, When, rapt in fancy, many a boyish day I tracked his wanderings o’er the watery way, Roamed round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams, Or plucked the fleur-de-lys by Jesso’s streams— Or gladly leaped on that far Tartar strand, Where Europe’s anchor ne’er had bit the sand, Where scarce a roving wild tribe crossed the plain, Or human voice broke nature’s silent reign; But vast and grassy deserts feed the bear, And sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter’s snare. Such young delight his real records brought, His truth so touched romantic springs of thought, That all my after-life—his fate and fame Entwined romance with La Perouse’s name. Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews, And glorious was th’ emprize of La Perouse,— Humanely glorious! Men will weep for him, When many a guilty martial fame is dim: He ploughed the deep to bind no captive’s chain— Pursued no rapine—strewed no wreck with slain, And, save that in the deep themselves lie low, His heroes plucked no wreath from human woe. ’Twas his the earth’s remotest bounds to scan, Conciliating with gifts barbaric man— Enrich the world’s contemporaneous mind, And amplify the picture of mankind. Far on the vast Pacific—midst those isles, O’er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles, He sounded and gave charts to many a shore And gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore; Yet he that led Discovery o’er the wave, Still finds himself an undiscovered grave. He came not back,—Conjecture’s cheek grew pale, Year after year—in no propitious gale, His lilied banner held its homeward way, And Science saddened at her martyr’s stay. An age elapsed—no wreck told where or when The chief went down with all his gallant men, Or whether by the storm and wild sea flood He perished, or by wilder men of blood— The shudd’ring Fancy only guess’d his doom, And Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom. An age elapsed—when men were dead or grey, Whose hearts had mourned him in their youthful day Fame traced on Mannicōlo’s shore at last The boiling surge had mounted o’er his mast. The islesmen told of some surviving men, But Christian eyes beheld them ne’er again. Sad bourne of all his toils—with all his band— To sleep, wrecked, shroudless, on a savage strand! Yet what is all that fires a hero’s scorn Of death?—the hope to live in hearts unborn: Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath, But worth—foretasting fame, that follows death. That worth had La Perouse—that meed he won; He sleeps—his life’s long stormy watch is done. In the great deep, whose boundaries and space He measured, Fate ordained his resting-place; But bade his fame, like th’ Ocean rolling o’er His relics—visit every earthly shore. Fair Science on that Ocean’s azure robe, Still writes his name in picturing the globe, And paints—(what fairer wreath could Glory twine?) His watery course—a world-encircling line.

So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain! And Poland by the Northern Condor’s beak And talons torn, lies prostrated again. O, British patriots, that were wont to speak Once loudly on this theme, now hushed or meek! O, heartless men of Europe—Goth and Gaul! Cold, adder-deaf to Poland’s dying shriek;— That saw the world’s last land of heroes fall— The brand of burning shame is on you all—all—all! But this is not the drama’s closing act; Its tragic curtain must uprise anew. Nations, mute accessaries to the fact! That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o’er you The lengthening shadow of its head elate— A deadly shadow, darkening nature’s hue. To all that’s hallowed, righteous, pure, and great, Wo! wo! when they are reached by Russia’s withering hate. Russia, that on his throne of adamant, Consults what nation’s breast shall next be gored: He on Polonia’s Golgotha will plant His standard fresh; and, horde succeeding horde, On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword, For more stupendous slaughters of the free. Then Europe’s realms, when their best blood is poured, Shall miss thee, Poland! as they bend the knee, All—all in grief, but none in glory likening thee. Why smote ye not the giant whilst he reeled? O, fair occasion, gone for ever by! To have locked his lances in their northern field, Innocuous as the phantom chivalry That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky! Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o’er the land Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high; Dig dungeon’s deep; for Poland’s wrested brand Is now a weapon new to widen thy command— An awful width! Norwegian woods shall build His fleets; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane: The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be tilled To feed his dazzling, desolating train, Camped sumless, ’twixt the Black and Baltic main: Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write, And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia’s chain: So Russia’s spirit, midst Sclavonic night, Burns with a fire more dread than all your polished light. But Russia’s limbs (so blinded statesmen say) Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. O, lamentable weakness! reckoning weak The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year. What implement lacks he for war’s career, That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines, (Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere) Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines, And India’s homage waits, when Albion’s star declines? But time will teach the Russ, e’en conquering Has handmaid arts: ay, ay, the Russ will woo All sciences that speed Bellona’s car, All murder’s tactic arts, and win them too; But never holier Muses shall imbue His breast, that’s made of nature’s basest clay: The sabre, knout, and dungeon’s vapour blue His laws and ethics: far from him away Are all the lovely nine that breath but freedom’s day. Say, e’en his serfs, half humanised, should learn Their human rights,—will Mars put out his flame In Russian bosoms? no, he’ll bid them burn A thousand years for nought but martial fame, Like Romans:—yet forgive me, Roman name! Rome could impart what Russia never can; Proud civic rights to salve submission’s shame. Our strife is coming; but in freedom’s van The Polish Eagle’s fall is big with fate to man. Proud bird of old! Mohammed’s moon recoiled Before thy swoop: had we been timely bold, That swoop, still free, had stunned the Russ, and foiled Earth’s new oppressors, as it foiled her old. Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold: And colder still Polonia’s children find The sympathetic hands, that we outhold. But, Poles, when we are gone, the world will mind, Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for humankind. So hallowedly have ye fulfilled your part, My pride repudiates e’en the sigh that blends With Poland’s name—name written on my heart. My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends! Your sorrow, in nobility, transcends Your conqueror’s joy: his cheek may blush; but shame Can tinge not yours, though exile’s tear descends; Nor would ye change your conscience, cause and name, For his, with all his wealth, and all his felon fame. Thee, Niemciewitz,[90] whose song of stirring power The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands; Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banished bower, The patricide, who in thy palace stands, May envy; proudly may Polonia’s bands Throw down their swords at Europe’s feet in scorn, Saying—“Russia, from the metal of these brands Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn; Our setting star is your misfortune’s rising morn.”

Star of the morn and eve, Reullura shone like thee, And well for her might Aodh grieve, The dark-attired Culdee.[92] Peace to their shades! the pure Culdees Were Albyn’s earliest priests of God, Ere yet an island of her seas By foot of Saxon monk was trod, Long ere her churchmen by bigotry Were barred from holy wedlock’s tie. ’Twas then that Aodh, famed afar, In Iona preached the word with power, And Reullura, beauty’s star, Was the partner of his bower. But, Aodh, the roof lies low, And the thistle-down waves bleaching, And the bat flits to and fro Where the Gael once heard thy preaching, And fall’n is each columned aisle Where the chiefs and the people knelt. ’Twas near that temple’s goodly pile That honoured of men they dwelt. For Aodh was wise in the sacred law, And bright Reullura’s eyes oft saw The veil of fate uplifted. Alas, with what visions of awe Her soul in that hour was gifted— When pale in the temple and faint, With Aodh she stood alone By the statue of an aged Saint! Fair sculptured was the stone, It bore a crucifix; Fame said it once had graced A Christian temple, which the Picts In the Britons’ land laid waste: The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, Had hither the holy relic brought. Reullura eyed the statue’s face, And cried, “It is he shall come, Even he in this very place, To avenge my martyrdom. “For, woe to the Gael people! Ulvfagre is on the main, And Iona shall look from tower and steeple On the coming ships of the Dane; And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks With the spoiler’s grasp entwine? No! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks, And the deep sea shall be mine. Baffled by me shall the Dane return, And here shall his torch in the temple burn, Until that holy man shall plough The waves from Innisfail.[93] His sail is on the deep e’en now, And swells to the southern gale.” “Ah! knowest thou not, my bride,” The holy Aodh said, “That the Saint whose form we stand beside Has for ages slept with the dead?” “He liveth, he liveth,” she said again, “For the span of his life tenfold extends Beyond the wonted years of men. He sits by the graves of well-loved friends That died ere thy grandsire’s grandsire’s birth; The oak is decayed with old age on earth, Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him; And his parents remember the day of dread When the sun on the cross looked dim, And the graves gave up their dead. “Yet preaching from clime to clime, He hath roamed the earth for ages, And hither he shall come in time When the wrath of the heathen rages, In time a remnant from the sword— Ah! but a remnant to deliver; Yet, bless’d be the name of the Lord! His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever. Lochlin,[94] appalled, shall put up her steel, And thou shalt embark on the bounding keel; Safe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships, With the Saint and a remnant of the Gael, And the Lord will instruct thy lips To preach in Innisfail.” The sun, now about to set, Was burning o’er Tiriee, And no gathering cry rose yet O’er the isles of Albyn’s sea, Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip Their oars beneath the sun, And the phantom of many a Danish ship, Where ship there yet was none. And the shield of alarm[95] was dumb, Nor did their warning till midnight come, When watch-fires burst from across the mair From Rona and Uist and Skye, To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-haired slayers were nigh. Our islesmen arose from slumbers, And buckled on their arms; But few, alas! were their numbers To Lochlin’s mailèd swarms. And the blade of the bloody Norse Has filled the shores of the Gael With many a floating corse, And with many a woman’s wail. They have lighted the islands with ruin’s torch, And the holy men of Iona’s church In the temple of God lay slain; All but Aodh, the last Culdee, But bound with many an iron chain, Bound in that church was he. And where is Aodh’s bride? Rocks of the ocean flood! Plunged she not from your heights in pride, And mocked the men of blood? Then Ulvfagre and his bands In the temple lighted their banquet up, And the print of their blood-red hands Was left on the altar cup. ’Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, “Tell where thy church’s treasure’s laid, Or I’ll hew thee limb from limb.” As he spoke the bell struck three, And every torch grew dim That lighted their revelry. But the torches again burnt bright, And brighter than before, When an aged man of majestic height Entered the temple door. Hushed was the revellers’ sound, They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appalled by the very sound Of his footstep’s measured tread. Nor word was spoken by one beholder, While he flung his white robe back on his shoulder And stretching his arm—as eath Unriveted Aodh’s bands, As if the gyves had been a wreath Of willows in his hands. All saw the stranger’s similitude To the ancient statue’s form; The Saint before his own image stood, And grasped Ulvfagre’s arm. Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver Their chief, and shouting with one accord, They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver, They lifted the spear and sword, And levelled their spears in rows. But down went axes and spears and bows, When the Saint with his crosier signed, The archer’s hand on the string was stopt, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropt. The Saint then gave a signal mute, And though Ulvfagre willed it not, He came and stood at the statue’s foot, Spell-riveted to the spot, Till hands invisible shook the wall, And the tottering image was dashed Down from its lofty pedestal. On Ulvfagre’s helm it crashed— Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, It crushed as millstone crushes the grain. Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each Of the Heathen trembled round, And the pauses amidst his speech Were as awful as the sound: “Go back, ye wolves, to your dens,” he cried, “And tell the nations abroad, How the fiercest of your herd has died That slaughtered the flock of God. Gather him bone by bone, And take with you o’er the flood The fragments of that avenging stone That drank his heathen blood. These are the spoils from Iona’s sack, The only spoils ye shall carry back; For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword Shall be withered by palsy’s shock, And I come in the name of the Lord To deliver a remnant of his flock.” A remnant was called together, A doleful remnant of the Gael, And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left Iona’s strand, When the opal morn first flushed the sky, For the Norse dropt spear, and bow and brand, And looked on them silently; Safe from their hiding places came Orphans and mothers, child and dame: But alas! when the search for Reullura spread, No answering voice was given, For the sea had gone o’er her lovely head, And her spirit was in Heaven.

The Spirit of Britannia Invokes across the main, Her sister Allemania To burst the Tyrant’s chain: By our kindred blood she cries, Rise, Allemanians, rise, And hallowed thrice the band Of our kindred hearts shall be, When your land shall be the land Of the free—of the free! With Freedom’s lion-banner Britannia rules the waves; Whilst your broad stone of honour[96] Is still the camp of slaves. For shame, for glory’s sake, Wake, Allemanians, wake, And the tyrants now that whelm Half the world, shall quail and flee, When your realm shall be the realm Of the free—of the free! Mars owes to you his thunder[97] That shakes the battle-field, Yet to break your bonds asunder No martial bolt has pealed Shall the laurelled land of art Wear shackles on her heart? No! the clock ye framed to tell By its sound, the march of time; Let it clang oppression’s knell O’er your clime—o’er your clime! The press’s magic letters, That blessing ye brought forth,— Behold! it lies in fetters On the soil that gave it birth: But the trumpet must be heard, And the charger must be spurred; For you father Armin’s Sprite Calls down from heaven, that ye Shall gird you for the fight, And be free!—and be free!

Could I bring back lost youth again, And be what I have been, I’d court you in a gallant strain, My young and fair Florine. But mine’s the chilling age that chides Devoted rapture’s glow, And Love—that conquers all besides— Finds Time a conquering foe. Farewell! we’re severed by our fate, As far as night from noon; You came into the world too late, And I depart so soon.