("Tandis que l'étoile inodore."){XXXII.}
While bright but scentless azure starsBe-gem the golden corn,And spangle with their skyey tintThe furrows not yet shorn;While still the pure white tufts of MayApe each a snowy ball,—Away, ye merry maids, and hasteTo gather ere they fall!Nowhere the sun of Spain outshinesUpon a fairer townThan Peñafiel, or endowsMore richly farming clown;Nowhere a broader square reflectsSuch brilliant mansions, tall,—Away, ye merry maids, etc.Nowhere a statelier abbey rearsDome huger o'er a shrine,Though seek ye from old Rome itselfTo even Seville fine.Here countless pilgrims come to prayAnd promenade the Mall,—Away, ye merry maids, etc.Where glide the girls more joyfullyThan ours who dance at dusk,With roses white upon their brows,With waists that scorn the busk?Mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes—Compared with these, how small!Away, ye merry maids, etc.A blossom in a city lane,Alizia was our pride,And oft the blundering bee, deceived,Came buzzing to her side—But, oh! for one that felt the sting,And found, 'neath honey, gall—Away, ye merry maids, etc.Young, haughty, from still hotter lands,A stranger hither came—Was he a Moor or African,Or Murcian known to fame?None knew—least, she—or false or true,The name by which to call.Away, ye merry maids, etc.Alizia asked not his degree,She saw him but as Love,And through Xarama's vale they strayed,And tarried in the grove,—Oh! curses on that fatal eve,And on that leafy hall!Away, ye merry maids, etc.The darkened city breathed no more;The moon was mantled long,Till towers thrust the cloudy cloakUpon the steeples' throng;The crossway Christ, in ivy draped,Shrank, grieving, 'neath the pall,—Away, ye merry maids, etc.But while, alone, they kept the shade,The other dark-eyed dearsWere murmuring on the stifling airTheir jealous threats and fears;Alizia was so blamed, that time,Unheeded rang the call:Away, ye merry maids, etc.Although, above, the hawk describesThe circle round the lark,It sleeps, unconscious, and our lassHad eyes but for her spark—A spark?—a sun! 'Twas Juan, King!Who wears our coronal,—Away, ye merry maids, etc.A love so far above one's stateEnds sadly. Came a blackAnd guarded palanquin to bearThe girl that ne'er comes back;By royal writ, some nunneryStill shields her from us allAway, ye merry maids, and hasteTo gather ere they fall!H. L. WILLIAMS
("Ainsi, lorsqu'un mortel!"){XXXIV., May, 1828.}As when a mortal—Genius' prize, alack!Is, living, bound upon thy fatal back,Thou reinless racing steed!In vain he writhes, mere cloud upon a star,Thou bearest him as went Mazeppa, farOut of the flow'ry mead,—So—though thou speed'st implacable, (like him,Spent, pallid, torn, bruised, weary, sore and dim,As if each stride the nearer bringHim to the grave)—when comesthe time,After the fall, he rises—KING!H.L. WILLIAMS
("Quoi! ne pouvez-vous vivre ensemble?"){XXXV., June, 1828.}
The River Deity upbraids his Daughters, the contributary Streams:—Ye daughters mine! will naught abateYour fierce interminable hate?Still am I doomed to rue the fateThat such unfriendly neighbors made?The while ye might, in peaceful cheer,Mirror upon your waters clear,Semlin! thy Gothic steeples dear,And thy bright minarets, Belgrade!Fraser's Magazine
("J'étais seul près des flots."){XXXVII., September 5, 1828.}
I stood by the waves, while the stars soared in sight,Not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright;Scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eye;And the woods, and the hills, and all nature around,Seem'd to question with moody, mysterious sound,The waves, and the pure stars on high.And the clear constellations, that infinite throng,While thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song,Replying, bowed meekly their diamond-blaze—And the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest,Chorus'd forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest"Creator! we bless thee and praise!"R.C. ELLWOOD
("Toujours lui! lui partout!"){XL., December, 1828.}
Above all others, everywhere I seeHis image cold or burning!My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets freeThe thoughts within me yearning.My quivering lips pour forth the wordsThat cluster in his name of glory—The star gigantic with its rays of swordsWhose gleams irradiate all modern story.I see his finger pointing where the shellShould fall to slay most rabble,And save foul regicides; or strike the knellOf weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble.A Consul then, o'er young but proud,With midnight poring thinned, and sallow,But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud,And round pale face and lank locks form the halo.And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flameWhole nations' contact urgingTo gain his soldiers gold and fameOh, Sun on high emerging,Whose dazzling lustre fired the hellsEmbosomed in grim bronze, which, free, aroseTo change five hundred thousand base-born Tells,Into his host of half-a-million heroes!What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart.No weight of arms enfoldedCan crush the turmoil in that seething heartWhich Nature—not her journeymen—self-moulded.Let sordid jailers vex their prize;But only bends that brow to lightning,As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighsCleave through the storm and haste where France looms bright'ning.Alone, but greater! Broke the sceptre, true!Yet lingers still some power—In tears of woe man's metal may renewThe temper of high hour;For, bating breath, e'er list the kingsThe pinions clipped may grow! the EagleMay burst, in frantic thirst for home, the ringsAnd rend the Bulldog, Fox, and Bear, and Beagle!And, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and hereEternal brightness coming!The eye so weary's freshened with a tearAs rises distant drumming,And wailing cheer—they pass the paleHis army mourns though still's the end hid;And from his war-stained cloak, he answers "Hail!"And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid!H.L. WILLIAMS.
("Il s'est dit tant de fois."){III., May, 1830.}
How often have the people said: "What's power?"Who reigns soon is dethroned? each fleeting hourHas onward borne, as in a fevered dream,Such quick reverses, like a judge supreme—Austere but just, they contemplate the endTo which the current of events must tend.Self-confidence has taught them to forbear,And in the vastness of their strength, they spare.Armed with impunity, forone in vainResists anation, they let others reign.G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
("Souvent quand mon esprit riche."){VII., May 18, 1828.}
When my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled,Floats on in repose round this wonderful world,Oft the sacred fire from heaven—Mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul—Strikes mine with its ray, and above the poleIts upward course is driven,Like a wandering cloud, then, my eager thoughtCapriciously flies, to no guidance brought,With every quarter's wind;It regards from those radiant vaults on high,Earth's cities below, and again doth fly,And leaves but its shadow behind.In the glistening gold of the morning bright,It shines, detaching some lance of light,Or, as warrior's armor rings;It forages forests that ferment around,Or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found,Where the west its radiance flings.Or, on mountain peak, that rears its headWhere snow-clad Alps around are spread,By furious gale 'tis thrown.From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away,And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray,The giant mountain's crown!Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled,In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed;On its side the rainbow plays,And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below,The last slanting ray on its crest of snowMakes its cap like a crater to blaze.In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light,The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight,The eagle afar is driven;The deluge but roars in despair to its feet,And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet,So near doth it rise to heaven.Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear,Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near;On the starry vault to gaze,And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night,On th' horizon high heaving, like arches of light,Till again the sun shall blaze.For then will the glacier with glory be graced,On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed,The morn its echoes greet;Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life,Like Chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife,When waters on waters meet.As the spirit of poesy touches my thought,It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought,From earth, with the waters of pain.As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends,These fly to the heavens—their course never ends,But descend to the ocean again.Author of "Critical Essays."
("Moi, quelque soit le monde."){XV., May 11, 1830.}
For me, whate'er my life and lot may show,Years blank with gloom or cheered by mem'ry's glow,Turmoil or peace; never be it mine, I pray,To be a dweller of the peopled earth,Save 'neath a roof alive with children's mirthLoud through the livelong day.So, if my hap it be to see once moreThose scenes my footsteps tottered in before,An infant follower in Napoleon's train:Rodrigo's holds, Valencia and Leon,And both Castiles, and mated Aragon;Ne'er be it mine, O Spain!To pass thy plains with cities scant between,Thy stately arches flung o'er deep ravine,Thy palaces, of Moor's or Roman's time;Or the swift makings of thy Guadalquiver,Save in those gilded cars, where bells foreverRing their melodious chime.Fraser's Magazine
("Lorsque l'enfant parait."){XIX., May 11, 1830.}
The child comes toddling in, and young and oldWith smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold,And artless, babyish joy;A playful welcome greets it through the room,The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom,To greet the happy boy.If June with flowers has spangled all the ground,Or winter bleak the flickering hearth aroundDraws close the circling seat;The child still sheds a never-failing light;We call; Mamma with mingled joy and frightWatches its tottering feet.Perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw,We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law,Or politics, or prayer;The child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play,Farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay,Philosophy and care.When fancy wakes, but sense in heaviest sleepLies steeped, and like the sobs of them that weepThe dark stream sinks and swells,The dawn, like Pharos gleaming o'er the sea,Bursts forth, and sudden wakes the minstrelsyOf birds and chiming bells;Thou art my dawn; my soul is as the field,Where sweetest flowers their balmy perfumes yieldWhen breathed upon by thee,Of forest, where thy voice like zephyr plays,And morn pours out its flood of golden rays,When thy sweet smile I see.Oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue;And little hands that evil never knew,Pure as the new-formed snow;Thy feet are still unstained by this world's mire,Thy golden locks like aureole of fireCircle thy cherub brow!Dove of our ark, thine angel spirit fliesOn azure wings forth from thy beaming eyes.Though weak thine infant feet,What strange amaze this new and strange world givesTo thy sweet virgin soul, that spotless livesIn virgin body sweet.Oh, gentle face, radiant with happy smile,And eager prattling tongue that knows no guile,Quick changing tears and bliss;Thy soul expands to catch this new world's light,Thy mazed eyes to drink each wondrous sight,Thy lips to taste the kiss.Oh, God! bless me and mine, and these I love,And e'en my foes that still triumphant proveVictors by force or guile;A flowerless summer may we never see,Or nest of bird bereft, or hive of bee,Or home of infant's smile.HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.
("Dans l'alcôve sombre."){XX., November, 1831.}
In the dusky nook,Near the altar laid,Sleeps the child in shadowOf his mother's bed:Softly he reposes,And his lid of roses,Closed to earth, unclosesOn the heaven o'erhead.Many a dream is with him,Fresh from fairyland,Spangled o'er with diamondsSeems the ocean sand;Suns are flaming there,Troops of ladies fairSouls of infants bearIn each charming hand.Oh, enchanting vision!Lo, a rill upsprings,And from out its bosomComes a voice that singsLovelier there appearSire and sisters dear,While his mother nearPlumes her new-born wings.But a brighter visionYet his eyes behold;Roses pied and liliesEvery path enfold;Lakes delicious sleeping,Silver fishes leaping,Through the wavelets creepingUp to reeds of gold.Slumber on, sweet infant,Slumber peacefullyThy young soul yet knows notWhat thy lot may be.Like dead weeds that sweepO'er the dol'rous deep,Thou art borne in sleep.What is all to thee?Thou canst slumber by the way;Thou hast learnt to borrowNaught from study, naught from care;The cold hand of sorrowOn thy brow unwrinkled yet,Where young truth and candor sit,Ne'er with rugged nail hath writThat sad word, "To-morrow!"Innocent! thou sleepest—See the angelic band,Who foreknow the trialsThat for man are planned;Seeing him unarmed,Unfearing, unalarmed,With their tears have warmedThis unconscious hand.Still they, hovering o'er him,Kiss him where he lies,Hark, he sees them weeping,"Gabriel!" he cries;"Hush!" the angel says,On his lip he laysOne finger, one displaysHis native skies.Foreign Quarterly Review
("Le soleil s'est couché"){XXXV. vi., April, 1829.}
The sun set this evening in masses of cloud,The storm comes to-morrow, then calm be the night,Then the Dawn in her chariot refulgent and proud,Then more nights, and still days, steps of Time in his flight.The days shall pass rapid as swifts on the wing.O'er the face of the hills, o'er the face of the seas,O'er streamlets of silver, and forests that ringWith a dirge for the dead, chanted low by the breeze;The face of the waters, the brow of the mountsDeep scarred but not shrivelled, and woods tufted green,Their youth shall renew; and the rocks to the fountsShall yield what these yielded to ocean their queen.But day by day bending still lower my head,Still chilled in the sunlight, soon I shall have cast,At height of the banquet, my lot with the dead,Unmissed by creation aye joyous and vast.TORU DUTT.
("Ma fille, va prier!"){XXXVII., June, 1830.}
I.Come, child, to prayer; the busy day is done,A golden star gleams through the dusk of night;The hills are trembling in the rising mist,The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight;All things wend home to rest; the roadside treesShake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze.The sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze,As twilight open flings the doors of night;The fringe of carmine narrows in the west,The rippling waves are tipped with silver light;The bush, the path—all blend in one dull gray;The doubtful traveller gropes his anxious way.Oh, day! with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife;Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet,The sad winds moaning through the ruined tower,The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat—All nature groans opprest with toil and care,And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer.At eve the babes with angels converse hold,While we to our strange pleasures wend our way,Each with its little face upraised to heaven,With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray,At selfsame hour with selfsame words they callOn God, the common Father of them all.And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon,Born as the busy day's last murmurs die,In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloomTheir breathing lips and golden locks descry.And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam,Around their curtained cradles clustering come.Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent;Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure, and light;Oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles,Meet prelude to the harmonies of night;As birds beneath the wing enfold their head,Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed.HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.
To prayer, my child! and O, be thy first prayerFor her who, many nights, with anxious care,Rocked thy first cradle; who took thy infant soulFrom heaven and gave it to the world; then rifeWith love, still drank herself the gall of life,And left for thy young lips the honeyed bowl.And then—I need it more—then pray for me!For she is gentle, artless, true like thee;—She has a guileless heart, brow placid still;Pity she has for all, envy for none;Gentle and wise, she patiently lives on;And she endures, nor knows who does the ill.In culling flowers, her novice hand has ne'erTouched e'en the outer rind of vice; no snareWith smiling show has lured her steps aside:On her the past has left no staining mark;Nor knows she aught of those bad thoughts which, darkLike shade on waters, o'er the spirit glide.She knows not—nor mayest thou—the miseriesIn which our spirits mingle: vanities,Remorse, soul-gnawing cares, Pleasure's false show:Passions which float upon the heart like foam,Bitter remembrances which o'er us come,And Shame's red spot spread sudden o'er the brow.I know life better! when thou'rt older grownI'll tell thee—it is needful to be known—Of the pursuit of wealth—art, power; the cost.That it is folly, nothingness: that shameFor glory is oft thrown us in the gameOf Fortune; chances where the soul is lost.The soul will change. Although of everythingThe cause and end be clear, yet wilderingWe roam through life (of vice and error full).We wander as we go; we feel the loadOf doubt; and to the briars upon the roadMan leaves his virtue, as the sheep its wool.Then go, go pray for me! And as the prayerGushes in words, be this the form they bear:—"Lord, Lord, our Father! God, my prayer attend;Pardon! Thou art good! Pardon—Thou art great!"Let them go freely forth, fear not their fate!Where thy soul sends them, thitherward they tend.There's nothing here below which does not findIts tendency. O'er plains the rivers wind,And reach the sea; the bee, by instinct driven,Finds out the honeyed flowers; the eagle fliesTo seek the sun; the vulture where death lies;The swallow to the spring; the prayer to Heaven!And when thy voice is raised to God for me,I'm like the slave whom in the vale we seeSeated to rest, his heavy load laid by;I feel refreshed—the load of faults and woeWhich, groaning, I drag with me as I go,Thy wingèd prayer bears off rejoicingly!Pray for thy father! that his dreams be brightWith visitings of angel forms of light,And his soul burn as incense flaming wide,Let thy pure breath all his dark sins efface,So that his heart be like that holy place,An altar pavement each eve purified!C.,Tait's Magazine
("De quel non te nommer?"){PRELUDE, a, Oct. 20, 1835.}
How shall I note thee, line of troubled years,Which mark existence in our little span?One constant twilight in the heaven appears—One constant twilight in the mind of man!Creed, hope, anticipation and despair,Are but a mingling, as of day and night;The globe, surrounded by deceptive air,Is all enveloped in the same half-light.And voice is deadened by the evening breeze,The shepherd's song, or maiden's in her bower,Mix with the rustling of the neighboring trees,Within whose foliage is lulled the power.Yet all unites! The winding path that leadsThro' fields where verdure meets the trav'ller's eye.The river's margin, blurred with wavy reeds,The muffled anthem, echoing to the sky!The ivy smothering the armèd tower;The dying wind that mocks the pilot's ear;The lordly equipage at midnight hour,Draws into danger in a fog the peer;The votaries of Satan or of Jove;The wretched mendicant absorbed in woe;The din of multitudes that onward move;The voice of conscience in the heart below;The waves, which Thou, O Lord, alone canst still;Th' elastic air; the streamlet on its way;And all that man projects, or sovereigns will;Or things inanimate might seem to say;The strain of gondolier slow streaming by;The lively barks that o'er the waters bound;The trees that shake their foliage to the sky;The wailing voice that fills the cots around;And man, who studies with an aching heart—For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere,In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart—Those doubts at length will arguments appear!Hence, reader, know the subject of my song—A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom,Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along,With noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb!G.W.M. REYNOLDS
("L'Orient! qu'y voyez-vous, poëtes?"){PRELUDE, b.}
Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes,Unto the East, and say what there appears!"Alas!" the voice of Poesy replies,"Mystic's that light between the hemispheres!""Yes, dread's the mystic light in yonder heaven—Dull is the gleam behind the distant hill;Like feeble flashes in the welkin driven,When the far thunder seems as it were still!"But who can tell if that uncertain glareBe Phoebus' self, adorned with glowing vest;Or, if illusions, pregnant in the air,Have drawn our glances to the radiant west?"Haply the sunset has deceived the sight—Perchance 'tis evening, while we look for morning;Bewildered in the mazes of twilight,That lucid sunset mayappeara dawning!"G.W.M. REYNOLDS
("Frères, vous avez vos journées."){I., July, 1830.}
Youth of France, sons of the bold,Your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold!Our civic-laurels—honored dead!So bright your triumphs in life's morn,Your maiden-standards hacked and torn,On Austerlitz might lustre shed.All that your fathers did re-done—A people's rights all nobly won—Ye tore them living from the shroud!Three glorious days bright July's gift,The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift!Oh! of such deeds be ever proud!Of patriot sires ye lineage claim,Their souls shone in your eye of flame;Commencing the great work was theirs;On you the task to finish laidYour fruitful mother, France, who badeFlow in one day a hundred years.E'en chilly Albion admires,The grand example Europe fires;America shall clap her hands,When swiftly o'er the Atlantic wave,Fame sounds the news of how the brave,In three bright days, have burst their bands!With tyrant dead your fathers tracedA circle wide, with battles graced;Victorious garland, red and vast!Which blooming out from home did goTo Cadiz, Cairo, Rome, Moscow,From Jemappes to Montmirail passed!Of warlike Lyceums{1} ye areThe favored sons; there, deeds of warFormed e'en your plays, while o'er you shookThe battle-flags in air aloft!Passing your lines, Napoleon oftElectrified you with a look!Eagle of France! whose vivid wingDid in a hundred places flingA bloody feather, till one nightThe arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wave!Look up—rejoice—for now thy braveAnd worthy eaglets dare the light.ELIZABETH COLLINS.{Footnote 1: The pupils of the Polytechnic Military School distinguishedthemselves by their patriotic zeal and military skill, through all thetroubles.}
("Laissez-moi pleurer sur cette race."){I. v.}
Oh! let me weep that race whose day is past,By exile given, by exile claimed once more,Thrice swept away upon that fatal blast.Whate'er its blame, escort we to our shoreThese relics of the monarchy of yore;And to th' outmarching oriflamme be paidWar's honors by the flag on Fleurus' field displayed!Fraser's Magazine
("Tu domines notre âge; ange ou démon, qu'importe!"){I. vii.}
Angel or demon! thou,—whether of lightThe minister, or darkness—still dost swayThis age of ours; thine eagle's soaring flightBears us, all breathless, after it away.The eye that from thy presence fain would stray,Shuns thee in vain; thy mighty shadow thrownRests on all pictures of the living day,And on the threshold of our time alone,Dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, Napoleon!Thus, when the admiring stranger's steps exploreThe subject-lands that 'neath Vesuvius be,Whether he wind along the enchanting shoreTo Portici from fair Parthenope,Or, lingering long in dreamy reverie,O'er loveliest Ischia's od'rous isle he stray,Wooed by whose breath the soft and am'rous seaSeems like some languishing sultana's lay,A voice for very sweets that scarce can win its way.Him, whether Paestum's solemn fane detain,Shrouding his soul with meditation's power;Or at Pozzuoli, to the sprightly strainOf tarantella danced 'neath Tuscan tower,Listening, he while away the evening hour;Or wake the echoes, mournful, lone and deep,Of that sad city, in its dreaming bowerBy the volcano seized, where mansions keepThe likeness which they wore at that last fatal sleep;Or be his bark at Posillippo laid,While as the swarthy boatman at his sideChants Tasso's lays to Virgil's pleased shade,Ever he sees, throughout that circuit wide,From shaded nook or sunny lawn espied,From rocky headland viewed, or flow'ry shore,From sea, and spreading mead alike descried,The Giant Mount, tow'ring all objects o'er,And black'ning with its breath th' horizon evermore!Fraser's Magazine
("Quand longtemps a grondé la bouche du Vésuve."){I. vii.}
When huge Vesuvius in its torment long,Threatening has growled its cavernous jaws among,When its hot lava, like the bubbling wine,Foaming doth all its monstrous edge incarnadine,Then is alarm in Naples.With dismay,Wanton and wild her weeping thousands pour,Convulsive grasp the ground, its rage to stay,Implore the angry Mount—in vain implore!For lo! a column tow'ring more and more,Of smoke and ashes from the burning crestShoots like a vulture's neck reared from its airy nest.Sudden a flash, and from th' enormous denTh' eruption's lurid mass bursts forth amain,Bounding in frantic ecstasy. Ah! thenFarewell to Grecian fount and Tuscan fane!Sails in the bay imbibe the purpling stain,The while the lava in profusion wideFlings o'er the mountain's neck its showery locks untied.It comes—it comes! that lava deep and rich,That dower which fertilizes fields and fillsNew moles upon the waters, bay and beach.Broad sea and clustered isles, one terror thrillsAs roll the red inexorable rills;While Naples trembles in her palaces,More helpless than the leaves when tempests shake the trees.Prodigious chaos, streets in ashes lost,Dwellings devoured and vomited again.Roof against neighbor-roof, bewildered, tossed.The waters boiling and the burning plain;While clang the giant steeples as they reel,Unprompted, their own tocsin peal.Yet 'mid the wreck of cities, and the prideOf the green valleys and the isles laid low,The crash of walls, the tumult waste and wide,O'er sea and land; 'mid all this work of woe,Vesuvius still, though close its crater-glow,Forgetful spares—Heaven wills that it should spare,The lonely cell where kneels an aged priest in prayer.Fraser's Magazine.
("La salle est magnifique."){IV. Aug. 23, 1839.}
The hall is gay with limpid lustre bright—The feast to pampered palate gives delight—The sated guests pick at the spicy food,And drink profusely, for the cheer is good;And at that table—where the wise are few—Both sexes and all ages meet the view;The sturdy warrior with a thoughtful face—The am'rous youth, the maid replete with grace,The prattling infant, and the hoary hairOf second childhood's proselytes—are there;—And the most gaudy in that spacious hall,Are e'er the young, or oldest of them allHelmet and banner, ornament and crest,The lion rampant, and the jewelled vest,The silver star that glitters fair and white,The arms that tell of many a nation's might—Heraldic blazonry, ancestral pride,And all mankind invents for pomp beside,The wingèd leopard, and the eagle wild—All these encircle woman, chief and child;Shine on the carpet burying their feet,Adorn the dishes that contain their meat;And hang upon the drapery, which aroundFalls from the lofty ceiling to the ground,Till on the floor its waving fringe is spread,As the bird's wing may sweep the roses' bed.—Thus is the banquet ruled by Noise and Light,Since Light and Noise are foremost on the site.The chamber echoes to the joy of themWho throng around, each with his diadem—Each seated on proud throne—but, lesson vain!Each sceptre holds its master with a chain!Thus hope of flight were futile from that hall,Where chiefest guest was most enslaved of all!The godlike-making draught that fires the soulThe Love—sweet poison-honey—past control,(Formed of the sexual breath—an idle name,Offspring of Fancy and a nervous frame)—Pleasure, mad daughter of the darksome Night,Whose languid eye flames when is fading light—The gallant chases where a man is borneBy stalwart charger, to the sounding horn—The sheeny silk, the bed of leaves of rose,Made more to soothe the sight than court repose;The mighty palaces that raise the sneerOf jealous mendicants and wretches near—The spacious parks, from which horizon blueArches o'er alabaster statues new;Where Superstition still her walk will take,Unto soft music stealing o'er the lake—The innocent modesty by gems undone—The qualms of judges by small brib'ry won—The dread of children, trembling while they play—The bliss of monarchs, potent in their sway—The note of war struck by the culverin,That snakes its brazen neck through battle din—The military millipedeThat tramples out the guilty seed—The capital all pleasure and delight—And all that like a town or army chokesThe gazer with foul dust or sulphur smokes.The budget, prize for which ten thousand baitA subtle hook, that ever, as they waitCatches a weed, and drags them to their fate,While gleamingly its golden scales still spread—Such were the meats by which these guests were fed.A hundred slaves for lazy master cared,And served each one with what was e'er preparedBy him, who in a sombre vault below,Peppered the royal pig with peoples' woe,And grimly glad went laboring till late—The morose alchemist we know as Fate!That ev'ry guest might learn to suit his taste,Behind had Conscience, real or mock'ry, placed;Conscience a guide who every evil spies,But royal nurses early pluck out both his eyes!Oh! at the table there be all the great,Whose lives are bubbles that best joys inflate!Superb, magnificent of revels—doubtThat sagest lose their heads in such a rout!In the long laughter, ceaseless roaming round,Joy, mirth and glee give out a maelström's sound;And the astonished gazer casts his care,Where ev'ry eyeball glistens in the flare.But oh! while yet the singing Hebes pourForgetfulness of those without the door—At very hour when all are most in joy,And the hid orchestra annuls annoy,Woe—woe! with jollity a-top the heights,With further tapers adding to the lights,And gleaming 'tween the curtains on the street,Where poor folks stare—hark to the heavy feet!Some one smites roundly on the gilded grate,Some one below will be admitted straight,Some one, though not invited, who'll not wait!Close not the door! Your orders are vain breath—That stranger enters to be known as Death—Or merely Exile—clothed in alien guise—Death drags away—withhisprey Exile flies!Death is that sight. He promenades the hall,And casts a gloomy shadow on them all,'Neath which they bend like willows soft,Ere seizing one—the dumbest monarch oft,And bears him to eternal heat and drouth,While still the toothsome morsel's in his mouth.G.W.M. REYNOLDS.