("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passé."){Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.}
Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!Alas! we all pursue its steps! and whenWe've sunk to rest within its arms entwined,Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and findOurselves alone again.Then, through the distant future's boundless space,We seek the lost companion of our days:"Return, return!" we cry, and lo, apacePleasure appears! but not to fill the placeOf that we mourn always.I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now,Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "Begone!Respect the cypress on my mournful brow,Lost Happiness hath left regret—butthouLeavest remorse, alone."Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire,O friends, that in your revelry appears!With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire,And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyreWhen it is wet with tears.Each in his secret heart perchance doth ownSome fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed;—Sufferers alike together and aloneAre we; with many a grief to others known,How many unrevealed!Alas! for natural tears and simple pains,For tender recollections, cherished long,For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains,We blush; as if we wore these earthly chainsOnly for sport and song!Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace:In vain I strove their parting to delay;Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space,Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the faceLightens, and fades away.Fraser's Magazine
("Le voile du matin."){Bk. V. viii., April, 1822.}
The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks,Old towers gleam white in the ray,And already the glory so joyously seeksThe lark that's saluting the day.Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair,Though, were you swept hence in the night,From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stareAt the sun rising newly as bright.But out of earth's trammels your soul would have flownWhere glitters Eternity's stream,And you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown,As sunshine disperses a dream.
("Le parfum d'un lis."){Bk. V. xiii.}
The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light,The latest murmur of departing day,Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight,The mystic farewell of each hour at flight,The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay,—The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestowAs trophy to the proud, triumphant sun;The thrilling accent of a voice we know,The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow,An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run,—The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh,Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame,—The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die,—The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie,Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME!Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine,Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound;Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine,The sacred word which at some hidden shrine,The selfsame voice forever makes resound!O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame,My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide,With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim,Shall dare to blend theone, the purer name,Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,—Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing,Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear;To solemn harmonies attuned the string,As, music show'ring from his viewless wing,On heavenly airs some angel hovered near.CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY)
("Oui, ce front, ce sourire."){Bk. V. xxii., November, 1825.}
That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair,Beseem my child, who weeps and plays:A heavenly spirit guards her ways,From whom she stole that mixture rare.Through all her features shining mild,The poet sees an angel there,The father sees a child.And by their flame so pure and bright,We see how lately those sweet eyesHave wandered down from Paradise,And still are lingering in its light.All earthly things are but a shadeThrough which she looks at things above,And sees the holy Mother-maid,Athwart her mother's glance of love.She seems celestial songs to hear,And virgin souls are whispering near.Till by her radiant smile deceived,I say, "Young angel, lately given,When was thy martyrdom achieved?And what name lost thou bear in heaven?"Dublin University Magazine.
("Dors-tu? mère de notre mère."){III., 1823.}"To die—to sleep."—SHAKESPEARE.
Still asleep! We have been since the noon thus alone.Oh, the hours we have ceased to number!Wake, grandmother!—speechless say why thou art grown.Then, thy lips are so cold!—the Madonna of stoneIs like thee in thy holy slumber.We have watched thee in sleep, we have watched thee at prayer,But what can now betide thee?Like thy hours of repose all thy orisons were,And thy lips would still murmur a blessing whene'erThy children stood beside thee.Now thine eye is unclosed, and thy forehead is bentO'er the hearth, where ashes smoulder;And behold, the watch-lamp will be speedily spent.Art thou vexed? have we done aught amiss? Oh, relent!But—parent, thy hands grow colder!Say, with ours wilt thou let us rekindle in thineThe glow that has departed?Wilt thou sing us some song of the days of lang syne?Wilt thou tell us some tale, from those volumes divine,Of the brave and noble-hearted?Of the dragon who, crouching in forest green glen,Lies in wait for the unwary—Of the maid who was freed by her knight from the denOf the ogre, whose club was uplifted, but thenTurned aside by the wand of a fairy?Wilt thou teach us spell-words that protect from all harm,And thoughts of evil banish?What goblins the sign of the cross may disarm?What saint it is good to invoke? and what charmCan make the demon vanish?Or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book,So feared by hell and Satan;At its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look,At the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook,And the hymns and the prayers in Latin.Oft with legends of angels, who watch o'er the young,Thy voice was wont to gladden;Have thy lips yet no language—no wisdom thy tongue?Oh, see! the light wavers, and sinking, bath flungOn the wall forms that sadden.Wake! awake! evil spirits perhaps may presumeTo haunt thy holy dwelling;Pale ghosts are, perhaps, stealing into the room—Oh, would that the lamp were relit! with the gloomThese fearful thoughts dispelling.Thou hast told us our parents lie sleeping beneathThe grass, in a churchyard lonely:Now, thine eyes have no motion, thy mouth has no breath,And thy limbs are all rigid! Oh, say,Is this death,Or thy prayer or thy slumber only?ENVOY.Sad vigil they kept by that grandmother's chair,Kind angels hovered o'er them—And the dead-bell was tolled in the hamlet—and there,On the following eve, knelt that innocent pair,With the missal-book before them."FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY).
("Ho, guerriers! je suis né dans le pays des Gaules."){V., March 11, 1825.}
Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls;O'er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like ballsOf the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathedEre in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed.Then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow,—A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow.He is weak, very old—he can scarcely uptearA young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear;But here's to replace him!—I can toy with his axe;As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax,And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees.How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze!I was still but a springald when, cleaving the Alps,I brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps,And my head, o'er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds,Where I captured the eagles and caged them by crowds.There were tempests! I blew them back into their source!And put out their lightnings! More than once in a course,Through the ocean I went wading after the whale,And stirred up the bottom as did never a gale.Fond of rambling, I hunted the shark 'long the beach,And no osprey in ether soared out of my reach;And the bear that I pinched 'twixt my finger and thumb,Like the lynx and the wolf, perished harmless and dumb.But these pleasures of childhood have lost all their zest;It is warfare and carnage that now I love best:The sounds that I wish to awaken and hearAre the cheers raised by courage, the shrieks due to fear;When the riot of flames, ruin, smoke, steel and blood,Announces an army rolls along as a flood,Which I follow, to harry the clamorous ranks,Sharp-goading the laggards and pressing the flanks,Till, a thresher 'mid ripest of corn, up I standWith an oak for a flail in my unflagging hand.Rise the groans! rise the screams! on my feet fall vain tearsAs the roar of my laughter redoubles their fears.I am naked. At armor of steel I should joke—True, I'm helmed—a brass pot you could draw with ten yoke.I look for no ladder to invade the king's hall—I stride o'er the ramparts, and down the walls fall,Till choked are the ditches with the stones, dead and quick,Whilst the flagstaff I use 'midst my teeth as a pick.Oh, when cometh my turn to succumb like my prey,May brave men my body snatch away from th' arrayOf the crows—may they heap on the rocks till they loomLike a mountain, befitting a colossus' tomb!Foreign Quarterly Review (adapted)
("Monseigneur le Duc de Bretagne."){VI., October, 1825.}
My lord the Duke of BrittanyHas summoned his barons bold—Their names make a fearful litany!Among them you will not meet anyBut men of giant mould.Proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep,And steel-clad knight and peer,Whose forts are girt with a moat cut deep—But none excel in soldiershipMy own loved cymbaleer.Clashing his cymbals, forth he went,With a bold and gallant bearing;Sure for a captain he was meant,To judge his pride with courage blent,And the cloth of gold he's wearing.But in my soul since then I feelA fear in secret creeping;And to my patron saint I kneel,That she may recommend his wealTo his guardian-angel's keeping.I've begged our abbot BernardineHis prayers not to relax;And to procure him aid divineI've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrineThree pounds of virgin wax.Our Lady of Loretto knowsThe pilgrimage I've vowed:"To wear the scallop I propose,If health and safety from the foesMy lover be allowed."No letter (fond affection's gage!)From him could I require,The pain of absence to assuage—A vassal-maid can have no page,A liegeman has no squire.This day will witness, with the duke's,My cymbaleer's return:Gladness and pride beam in my looks,Delay my heart impatient brooks,All meaner thoughts I spurn.Back from the battlefield elateHis banner brings each peer;Come, let us see, at the ancient gate,The martial triumph pass in state—With the princes my cymbaleer.We'll have from the rampart walls a glanceOf the air his steed assumes;His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance,And on his head unceasing dance,In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes!Be quick, my sisters! dress in haste!Come, see him bear the bell,With laurels decked, with true love graced,While in his bold hands, fitly placed,The bounding cymbals swell!Mark well the mantle that he'll wear,Embroidered by his bride!Admire his burnished helmet's glare,O'ershadowed by the dark horsehairThat waves in jet folds wide!The gypsy (spiteful wench!) foretold,With a voice like a viper hissing.(Though I had crossed her palm with gold),That from the ranks a spirit boldWould be to-day found missing.But I have prayed so much, I trustHer words may prove untrue;Though in a tomb the hag accurstMuttered: "Prepare thee for the worst!"Whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue.My joy her spells shall not prevent.Hark! I can hear the drums!And ladies fair from silken tentPeep forth, and every eye is bentOn the cavalcade that comes!Pikemen, dividing on both flanks,Open the pageantry;Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks,And silk-robed barons lead the ranks—The pink of gallantry!In scarfs of gold the priests admire;The heralds on white steeds;Armorial pride decks their attire,Worn in remembrance of some sireFamed for heroic deeds.Feared by the Paynim's dark divan,The Templars next advance;Then the tall halberds of Lausanne,Foremost to stand in battle vanAgainst the foes of France.Now hail the duke, with radiant brow,Girt with his cavaliers;Round his triumphant banner bowThose of his foe. Look, sisters, now!Here come the cymbaleers!She spoke—with searching eye surveyedTheir ranks—then, pale, aghast,Sunk in the crowd! Death came in aid—'Twas mercy to that loving maid—The cymbaleers had passed!"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY)
("Accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!"){VII., September, 1825.}
Ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey!Ye wolves of war, make no delay!For foemen 'neath our blades shall fallEre night may veil with purple pall.The evening psalms are nearly o'er,And priests who follow in our trainHave promised us the final gain,And filled with faith our valiant corps.Let orphans weep, and widows brood!To-morrow we shall wash the bloodOff saw-gapped sword and lances bent,So, close the ranks and fire the tent!And chill yon coward cavalcadeWith brazen bugles blaring loud,E'en though our chargers' neighing proudAlready has the host dismayed.Spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds!On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds!Through helmet plumes the arrows flit,And plated breasts the pikeheads split.The double-axe fells human oaks,And like the thistles in the fieldSee bristling up (where none must yield!)The points hewn off by sweeping strokes!We, heroes all, our wounds disdain;Dismounted now, our horses slain,Yet we advance—more courage show,Though stricken, seek to overthrowThe victor-knights who tread in mudThe writhing slaves who bite the heel,While on caparisons of steelThe maces thunder—cudgels thud!Should daggers fail hide-coats to shred,Seize each your man and hug him dead!Who falls unslain will only makeA mouthful to the wolves who slakeTheir month-whet thirst. No captives, none!We die or win! but should we die,The lopped-off hand will wave on highThe broken brand to hail the sun!
("Ecoute-moi, Madeline."){IX., September, 1825.}
List to me, O Madelaine!Now the snows have left the plain,Which they warmly cloaked.Come into the forest groves,Where the notes that Echo lovesAre from horns evoked.Come! where Springtide, Madelaine,Brings a sultry breath from Spain,Giving buds their hue;And, last night, to glad your eye,Laid the floral marquetry,Red and gold and blue.Would I were, O Madelaine,As the lamb whose wool you trainThrough your tender hands.Would I were the bird that whirlsRound, and comes to peck your curls,Happy in such bands.Were I e'en, O Madelaine,Hermit whom the herd disdainIn his pious cell,When your purest lips unfoldSins which might to all be told,As to him you tell.Would I were, O Madelaine,Moth that murmurs 'gainst your pane,Peering at your rest,As, so like its woolly wing,Ceasing scarce its fluttering,Heaves and sinks your breast.If you seek it, Madelaine,You may wish, and not in vain,For a serving host,And your splendid hall of stateShall be envied by the great,O'er the Jew-King's boast.If you name it, Madelaine,Round your head no more you'll trainSimple marguerites,No! the coronet of peers,Whom the queen herself oft fears,And the monarch greets.
If you wish, O Madelaine!Where you gaze you long shall reign—For I'm ruler here!I'm the lord who asks your handIf you do not bid me standLoving shepherd here!
("Où vas-tu donc, jeune âme."){XV.}
Beautiful spirit, come with meOver the blue enchanted sea:Morn and evening thou canst playIn my garden, where the breezeWarbles through the fruity trees;No shadow falls upon the day:There thy mother's arms awaitHer cherished infant at the gate.Of Peris I the loveliest far—My sisters, near the morning star,In ever youthful bloom abide;But pale their lustre by my side—A silken turban wreathes my head,Rubies on my arms are spread,While sailing slowly through the sky,By the uplooker's dazzled eyeAre seen my wings of purple hue,Glittering with Elysian dew.Whiter than a far-off sailMy form of beauty glows,Fair as on a summer nightDawns the sleep star's gentle light;And fragrant as the early roseThat scents the green Arabian vale,Soothing the pilgrim as he goes.THE FAY.Beautiful infant (said the Fay),In the region of the sunI dwell, where in a rich arrayThe clouds encircle the king of day,His radiant journey done.My wings, pure golden, of radiant sheen(Painted as amorous poet's strain),Glimmer at night, when meadows greenSparkle with the perfumed rainWhile the sun's gone to come again.And clear my hand, as stream that flows;And sweet my breath as air of May;And o'er my ivory shoulders strayLocks of sunshine;—tunes still playFrom my odorous lips of rose.Follow, follow! I have cavesOf pearl beneath the azure waves,And tents all woven pleasantlyIn verdant glades of Faëry.Come, belovèd child, with me,And I will bear thee to the bowersWhere clouds are painted o'er like flowers,And pour into thy charmed earSongs a mortal may not hear;Harmonies so sweet and ripeAs no inspired shepherd's pipeE'er breathed into Arcadian glen,Far from the busy haunts of men.THE PERI.My home is afar in the bright Orient,Where the sun, like a king, in his orange tent,Reigneth for ever in gorgeous pride—And wafting thee, princess of rich countree,To the soft flute's lush melody,My golden vessel will gently glide,Kindling the water 'long the side.Vast cities are mine of power and delight,Lahore laid in lilies, Golconda, Cashmere;And Ispahan, dear to the pilgrim's sight,And Bagdad, whose towers to heaven uprear;Alep, that pours on the startled ear,From its restless masts the gathering roar,As of ocean hamm'ring at night on the shore.Mysore is a queen on her stately throne,Thy white domes, Medina, gleam on the eye,—Thy radiant kiosques with their arrowy spires,Shooting afar their golden firesInto the flashing sky,—Like a forest of spears that startle the gazeOf the enemy with the vivid blaze.Come there, beautiful child, with me,Come to the arcades of Araby,To the land of the date and the purple vine,Where pleasure her rosy wreaths doth twine,And gladness shall be alway thine;Singing at sunset next thy bed,Strewing flowers under thy head.Beneath a verdant roof of leaves,Arching a flow'ry carpet o'er,Thou mayst list to lutes on summer evesTheir lays of rustic freshness pour,While upon the grassy floorLight footsteps, in the hour of calm,Ruffle the shadow of the palm.THE FAY.Come to the radiant homes of the blest,Where meadows like fountain in light are drest,And the grottoes of verdure never decay,And the glow of the August dies not away.Come where the autumn winds never can sweep,And the streams of the woodland steep thee in sleep,Like a fond sister charming the eyes of a brother,Or a little lass lulled on the breast of her mother.Beautiful! beautiful! hasten to me!Colored with crimson thy wings shall be;Flowers that fade not thy forehead shall twine,Over thee sunlight that sets not shall shine.The infant listened to the strain,Now here, now there, its thoughts were driven—But the Fay and the Peri waited in vain,The soul soared above such a sensual gain—The child rose to Heaven.Asiatic Journal
("Là, voyez-vous passer, la nuée."){I., November, 1828.}
I.Hast seen it pass, that cloud of darkest rim?Now red and glorious, and now gray and dim,Now sad as summer, barren in its heat?One seems to see at once rush through the nightThe smoke and turmoil from a burning siteOf some great town in fiery grasp complete.Whence comes it? From the sea, the hills, the sky?Is it the flaming chariot from on highWhich demons to some planet seem to bring?Oh, horror! from its wondrous centre, lo!A furious stream of lightning seems to flowLike a long snake uncoiling its fell ring.II.The sea! naught but the sea! waves on all sides!Vainly the sea-bird would outstrip these tides!Naught but an endless ebb and flow!Wave upon wave advancing, then controlledBeneath the depths a stream the eyes beholdRolling in the involved abyss below!Whilst here and there great fishes in the sprayTheir silvery fins beneath the sun display,Or their blue tails lash up from out the surge,Like to a flock the sea its fleece doth fling;The horizon's edge bound by a brazen ring;Waters and sky in mutual azure merge."Am I to dry these seas?" exclaimed the cloud."No!" It went onward 'neath the breath of God.III.Green hills, which round a limpid bayReflected, bask in the clear wave!The javelin and its buffalo prey,The laughter and the joyous stave!The tent, the manger! these describeA hunting and a fishing tribeFree as the air—their arrows flySwifter than lightning through the sky!By them is breathed the purest air,Where'er their wanderings may chance!Children and maidens young and fair,And warriors circling in the dance!Upon the beach, around the fire,Now quenched by wind, now burning higher,Like spirits which our dreams inspireTo hover o'er our trance.Virgins, with skins of ebony,Beauteous as evening skies,Laughed as their forms they dimly seeIn metal mirrors rise;Others, as joyously as they,Were drawing for their food by day,With jet-black hands, white camels' whey,Camels with docile eyes.Both men and women, bare,Plunged in the briny bay.Who knows them? Whence they were?Where passed they yesterday?Shrill sounds were hovering o'er,Mixed with the ocean's roar,Of cymbals from the shore,And whinnying courser's neigh."Is't there?" one moment asked the cloudy mass;"Is't there?" An unknown utterance answered: "Pass!"IV.Whitened with grain see Egypt's lengthened plains,Far as the eyesight farthest space contains,Like a rich carpet spread their varied hues.The cold sea north, southwards the burying sandDispute o'er Egypt—while the smiling landStill mockingly their empire does refuse.Three marble triangles seem to pierce the sky,And hide their basements from the curious eye.Mountains—with waves of ashes covered o'er!In graduated blocks of six feet squareFrom golden base to top, from earth to airTheir ever heightening monstrous steps they bore.No scorching blast could daunt the sleepless kenOf roseate Sphinx, and god of marble green,Which stood as guardians o'er the sacred ground.For a great port steered vessels huge and fleet,A giant city bathed her marble feetIn the bright waters round.One heard the dread simoom in distance roar,Whilst the crushed shell upon the pebbly shoreCrackled beneath the crocodile's huge coil.Westwards, like tiger's skin, each separate isleSpotted the surface of the yellow Nile;Gray obelisks shot upwards from the soil.The star-king set. The sea, it seemed to holdIn the calm mirror this live globe of gold,This world, the soul and torchbearer of our own.In the red sky, and in the purple streak,Like friendly kings who would each other seek,Two meeting suns were shown."Shall I not stop?" exclaimed the impatient cloud."Seek!" trembling Tabor heard the voice of God.V.Sand, sand, and still more sand!The desert! Fearful land!Teeming with monsters dreadAnd plagues on every hand!Here in an endless flow,Sandhills of golden glow,Where'er the tempests blow,Like a great flood are spread.Sometimes the sacred spotHears human sounds profane, whenAs from Ophir or from MemphreStretches the caravan.From far the eyes, its trailAlong the burning shaleBending its wavering tail,Like a mottled serpent scan.These deserts are of God!His are the bounds alone,Here, where no feet have trod,To Him its centre known!And from this smoking seaVeiled in obscurity,The foam one seems to seeIn fiery ashes thrown."Shall desert change to lake?" cried out the cloud."Still further!" from heaven's depths sounded that Voice aloud.VI.Like tumbled waves, which a huge rock surround;Like heaps of ruined towers which strew the ground,See Babel now deserted and dismayed!Huge witness to the folly of mankind;Four distant mountains when the moonlight shinedSeem covered with its shade.O'er miles and miles the shattered ruins spreadBeneath its base, from captive tempests bred,The air seemed filled with harmony strange and dire;While swarmed around the entire human raceA future Babel, on the world's whole spaceFixed its eternal spire.Up to the zenith rose its lengthening stair,While each great granite mountain lent a shareTo form a stepping base;Height upon height repeated seemed to rise,For pyramid on pyramid the strainèd eyesSaw take their ceaseless place.Through yawning walls huge elephants stalked by;Under dark pillars rose a forestry,Pillars by madness multiplied;As round some giant hive, all day and night,Huge vultures, and red eagles' wheeling flightWas through each porch descried."Must I complete it?" said the angered cloud."On still!" "Lord, whither?" groaned it, deep not loud.VII.Two cities, strange, unknown in history's page,Up to the clouds seemed scaling, stage by stage,Noiseless their streets; their sleeping inmates lie,Their gods, their chariots, in obscurity!Like sisters sleeping 'neath the same moonlight,O'er their twin towers crept the shades of night,Whilst scarce distinguished in the black profound,Stairs, aqueducts, great pillars, gleamed around,And ruined capitals: then was seen a groupOf granite elephants 'neath a dome to stoop,Shapeless, giant forms to view arise,Monsters around, the spawn of hideous ties!Then hanging gardens, with flowers and galleries:O'er vast fountains bending grew ebon-trees;Temples, where seated on their rich tiled thrones,Bull-headed idols shone in jasper stones;Vast halls, spanned by one block, where watch and stareEach upon each, with straight and moveless glare,Colossal heads in circles; the eye seesGreat gods of bronze, their hands upon their knees.Sight seemed confounded, and to have lost its powers,'Midst bridges, aqueducts, arches, and round towers,Whilst unknown shapes fill up the devious viewsFormed by these palaces and avenues.Like capes, the lengthening shadows seem to riseOf these dark buildings, pointed to the skies,Immense entanglement in shroud of gloom!The stars which gleamed in the empyrean dome,Under the thousand arches in heaven's spaceShone as through meshes of the blackest lace.Cities of hell, with foul desires demented,And monstrous pleasures, hour by hour invented!Each roof and home some monstrous mystery bore!Which through the world spread like a twofold sore!Yet all things slept, and scarce some pale late lightFlitted along the streets through the still night,Lamps of debauch, forgotten and alone,The feast's lost fires left there to flicker on;The walls' large angles clove the light-lengthening shades'Neath the white moon, or on some pool's face played.Perchance one heard, faint in the plain beneath,The kiss suppressed, the mingling of the breath;And the two sister cities, tired of heat,In love's embrace lay down in murmurs sweet!Whilst sighing winds the scent of sycamoreFrom Sodom to Gomorrah softly bore!Then over all spread out the blackened cloud,"'Tis here!" the Voice on high exclaimed aloud.VIII.From a cavern wideIn the rent cloud's side,In sulphurous showersThe red flame pours.The palaces fallIn the lurid light,Which casts a red pallO'er their facades white!Oh, Sodom! Gomorrah!What a dome of horrorRests now on your walls!On you the cloud falls,Nation perverse!On your fated heads,From its fell jaws, a curseIts lightning fierce spreads!The people awakenWhich godlessly slept;Their palaces shaken,Their offences unwept!Their rolling cars allMeet and crash in the street;And the crowds, for a pall,Find flames round their feet!Numberless dead,Round these high towers spread,Still sleep in the shadeBy their rugged heights made;Colossi of rocksIn ill-steadied blocks!So hang on a wallBlack ants, like a pall!To escape is in vainFrom this horrible rain!Alas! all things die;In the lightning's red flashThe bridges all crash;'Neath the tiles the flame creeps;From the fire-struck steepsFalls on the pavements below,All lurid in glow,Rolling down from on high!Beneath every spark,The red, tyrannous fireMounts up in the darkEver redder and higher;More swiftly than steedUncontrolled, see it pass!Horrid idols all twist,By the crumbling flame kissedIn their infamous dread,Shrivelled members of brass!It grows angry, flows on,Silver towers fall downUnforeseen, like a dreamIn its green and red stream,Which lights up the wallsEre one crashes and falls,Like the changeable scaleOf a lizard's bright mail.Agate, porphyry, cracksAnd is melted to wax!Bend low to their doomThese stones of the tomb!E'en the great marble giantCalled Nabo, sways pliantLike a tree; whilst the flareSeemed each column to scorchAs it blazed like a torchRound and round in the air.The magi, in vain,From the heights to the plainTheir gods' images carryIn white tunic: they quake—No idol can makeThe blue sulphur tarry;The temple e'en where they meet,Swept under their feetIn the folds of its sheet!Turns a palace to coal!Whence the straitened cries rollFrom its terrified flock;With incendiary gripsIt loosens a block,Which smokes and then slipsFrom its place by the shock;To the surface first sheers,Then melts, disappears,Like the glacier, the rock!The high priest, full of years,On the burnt site appears,Whence the others have fled.Lo! his tiara's caught fireAs the furnace burns higher,And pale, full of dread,See, the hand he would raiseTo tear his crown from the blazeIs flaming instead!Men, women, in crowdsHurry on—the fire shroudsAnd blinds all their eyesAs, besieging each gateOf these cities of fateTo the conscience-struck crowd,In each fiery cloud,Hell appears in the skies!IX.Men say thatthen, to see his foe's sad fallAs some old prisoner clings to his prison wall,Babel, accomplice of their guilt, was seenO'er the far hills to gaze with vision keen!And as was worked this dispensation strange,A wondrous noise filled the world's startled range;Reached the dull hearing that deep, direful soundOf their sad tribe who live below the ground.X.'Gainst this pitiless flame who condemned could prevail?Who these walls, burnt and calcined, could venture to scale?Yet their vile hands they sought to uplift,Yet they cared still to ask from what God, by what law?In their last sad embrace, 'midst their honor and awe,Of this mighty volcano the drift.'Neath great slabs of marble they hid them in vain,'Gainst this everliving fire, God's own flaming rain!'Tis the rash whom God seeks out the first;They call on their gods, who were deaf to their cries,For the punishing flame caused their cold granite eyesIn tears of hot lava to burst!Thus away in the whirlwind did everything pass,The man and the city, the soil and its grass!God burnt this sad, sterile champaign;Naught living was left of this people destroyed,And the unknown wind which blew over the void,Each mountain changed into a plain.XI.The palm-tree that grows on the rock to this day,Feels its leaf growing yellow, its slight stem decay,In the blasting and ponderous air;These towns are no more! but to mirror their past,O'er their embers a cold lake spread far and spread fast,With smoke like a furnace, lies there!J.N. FAZAKERLEY