FROM THE SPANISH.
Diamante falso y fingido,Engastado en pedernal, etc.
"False diamond set in flint! hard heart in haughty breast!By a softer, warmer bosom the tiger's couch is prest.Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind,And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind.If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would beTo tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me.Oh! I could chide thee sharply—but every maiden knowsThat she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Granada's maids,Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades;And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every oneThat what thou didst to win my love, for love of me was done.Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know,They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go;But thou giv'st me little heed—for I speak to one who knowsThat she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bearWhat fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care.Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah! thou know'st I feelThat cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel.'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain;But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again.I would proclaim thee as thou art—but every maiden knowsThat she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan,Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran.The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was,He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause:"Oh lady, dry those star-like eyes—their dimness does me wrong;If my heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image long.Thou hast uttered cruel words—but I grieve the less for those,Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."
FROM LA FONTAINE.
Love's worshippers alone can knowThe thousand mysteries that are his;His blazing torch, his twanging bow,His blooming age are mysteries.A charming science—but the dayWere all too short to con it o'er;So take of me this little lay,A sample of its boundless lore.As once, beneath the fragrant shadeOf myrtles fresh in heaven's pure air,The children, Love and Folly, played,A quarrel rose betwixt the pair.Love said the gods should do him right—But Folly vowed to do it then,And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight,So hard he never saw again.His lovely mother's grief was deep,She called for vengeance on the deed;A beauty does not vainly weep,Nor coldly does a mother plead.A shade came o'er the eternal blissThat fills the dwellers of the skies;Even stony-hearted Nemesis,And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes."Behold," she said, "this lovely boy,"While streamed afresh her graceful tears—"Immortal, yet shut out from joyAnd sunshine, all his future years.The child can never take, you see,A single step without a staff—The hardest punishment would beToo lenient for the crime by half."All said that Love had suffered wrong,And well that wrong should be repaid;Then weighed the public interest long,And long the party's interest weighed.And thus decreed the court above:"Since Love is blind from Folly's blow,Let Folly be the guide of Love,Where'er the boy may choose to go."
FROM THE SPANISH.
Vientecico murmurador,Que lo gozas y andas todo, etc.
Airs, that wander and murmur round,Bearing delight where'er ye blow!Make in the elms a lulling sound,While my lady sleeps in the shade below.Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest,Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er.Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breastThe pain she has waked may slumber no more.Breathing soft from the blue profound,Bearing delight where'er ye blow,Make in the elms a lulling sound,While my lady sleeps in the shade below.Airs! that over the bending boughs,And under the shade of pendent leaves,Murmur soft, like my timid vowsOr the secret sighs my bosom heaves—Gently sweeping the grassy ground,Bearing delight where'er ye blow,Make in the elms a lulling sound,While my lady sleeps in the shade below.
FROM THE SPANISH.
To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vain,And toward his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein;Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard."Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor,"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood!Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight,But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight.Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to seeHow ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fifeCan change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.Say not my voice is magic—thy pleasure is to hearThe bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.Well, follow thou thy choice—to the battle-field away,To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,And in the life thou lovest, forget whom thou dost wrong.These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own,Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone."She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek,Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.
FROM THE SPANISH.
'Tis not with gilded sabresThat gleam in baldricks blue,Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,Of gay and gaudy hue—But, habited in mourning weeds,Come marching from afar,By four and four, the valiant menWho fought with Aliatar.All mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.The banner of the Phœnix,The flag that loved the sky,That scarce the wind dared wanton with,It flew so proud and high—Now leaves its place in battle-field,And sweeps the ground in grief,The bearer drags its glorious foldsBehind the fallen chief,As mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.Brave Aliatar led forwardA hundred Moors to goTo where his brother held MotrilAgainst the leaguering foe.On horseback went the gallant Moor,That gallant band to lead;And now his bier is at the gate,From which he pricked his steed.While mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.The knights of the Grand MasterIn crowded ambush lay;They rushed upon him where the reedsWere thick beside the way;They smote the valiant Aliatar,They smote the warrior dead,And broken, but not beaten, wereThe gallant ranks he led.Now mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow,How passionate her cries!Her lover's wounds streamed not more freeThan that poor maiden's eyes.Say, Love—for didst thou see her tears—Oh, no! he drew more tightThe blinding fillet o'er his lidsTo spare his eyes the sight.While mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.Nor Zayda weeps him only,But all that dwell betweenThe great Alhambra's palace wallsAnd springs of Albaicin.The ladies weep the flower of knights,The brave the bravest here;The people weep a champion,The Alcaydes a noble peer.While mournfully and slowlyThe afflicted warriors come,To the deep wail of the trumpet,And beat of muffled drum.
FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR.
The earth was sown with early flowers,The heavens were blue and bright—I met a youthful cavalierAs lovely as the light.I knew him not—but in my heartHis graceful image lies,And well I marked his open brow,His sweet and tender eyes,His ruddy lips that ever smiled,His glittering teeth betwixt,And flowing robe embroidered o'er,With leaves and blossoms mixed.He wore a chaplet of the rose;His palfrey, white and sleek,Was marked with many an ebon spot,And many a purple streak;Of jasper was his saddle-bow,His housings sapphire stone,And brightly in his stirrup glancedThe purple calcedon.Fast rode the gallant cavalier,As youthful horsemen ride;"Peyre Vidal! know that I am Love,"The blooming stranger cried;"And this is Mercy by my side,A dame of high degree;This maid is Chastity," he said,"This squire is Loyalty."
FROM THE PROVENÇAL OF BERNARD RASCAS.
All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away,Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.The forms of men shall be as they had never been;The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender green;The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song,And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long;The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills,And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills.The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox,The wild-boar of the wood, and the chamois of the rocks,And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden dust shall lie;And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, shall die.And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no more,And they shall bow to death, who ruled from shore to shore;And the great globe itself, so the holy writings tell,With the rolling firmament, where the starry armies dwell,Shall melt with fervent heat—they shall all pass away,Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
Stay rivulet, nor haste to leaveThe lovely vale that lies around thee.Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve,When but a fount the morning found thee?Born when the skies began to glow,Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters,No blossom bowed its stalk to showWhere stole thy still and scanty waters.Now on the stream the noonbeams look,Usurping, as thou downward driftest,Its crystal from the clearest brook,Its rushing current from the swiftest.Ah! what wild haste!—and all to beA river and expire in ocean.Each fountain's tribute hurries theeTo that vast grave with quicker motion.Far better 'twere to linger stillIn this green vale, these flowers to cherish,And die in peace, an aged rill,Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF SEMEDO.
It is a fearful night; a feeble glareStreams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded sky;The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry,Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare;No bark the madness of the waves will dare;The sailors sleep; the winds are loud and high.Ah, peerless Laura! for whose love I die,Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair?As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried,I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright,A messenger of gladness, at my side;To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light,And as we furrowed Tago's heaving tide,I never saw so beautiful a night.
FROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESIAS.
Alexis calls me cruel:The rifted crags that holdThe gathered ice of winter,He says, are not more cold.When even the very blossomsAround the fountain's brim,And forest-walks, can witnessThe love I bear to him.I would that I could utterMy feelings without shame,And tell him how I love him,Nor wrong my virgin fame.Alas! to seize the momentWhen heart inclines to heart,And press a suit with passion,Is not a woman's part.If man come not to gatherThe roses where they stand,They fade among their foliage;They cannot seek his hand.
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands;He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain-lands;The horned crags are shining, and in the shade betweenA pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green."Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee!Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be!I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art,But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart."He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appearA troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near:They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance across;The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and ribbons toss.The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of spring,She takes the young count's fingers, and draws him to the ring;They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain flowers,"And ho, young Count of Greiers! this morning thou art ours!"Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay,Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count away.They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across the linn,Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in.The second morn is risen, and now the third is come;Where stays the Count of Greiers? has he forgot his home?Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air;There's thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there.The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen down;You see it by the lightning—a river wide and brown.Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar,Till, seizing on a willow, he leaps upon the shore."Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain-dell.Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell.Ye all, in cots and caverns, have 'scaped the water-spout,While me alone the tempest overwhelmed and hurried out."Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the rocks!Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy flocks!Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot,That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures me not?"Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein,Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again!Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track,And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back."
FROM THE SPANISH.
If slumber, sweet Lisena!Have stolen o'er thine eyes,As night steals o'er the gloryOf spring's transparent skies;Wake, in thy scorn and beauty,And listen to the strainThat murmurs my devotion,That mourns for thy disdain.Here, by thy door at midnight,I pass the dreary hour,With plaintive sounds profaningThe silence of thy bower;A tale of sorrow cherishedToo fondly to depart,Of wrong from love the flattererAnd my own wayward heart.Twice, o'er this vale, the seasonsHave brought and borne awayThe January tempest,The genial wind of May;Yet still my plaint is uttered,My tears and sighs are givenTo earth's unconscious waters,And wandering winds of heaven.I saw, from this fair region,The smile of summer pass,And myriard frost-stars glitterAmong the russet grass.While winter seized the streamletsThat fled along the ground,And fast in chains of crystalThe truant murmurers bound.I saw that to the forestThe nightingales had flown,And every sweet-voiced fountainHad hushed its silver tone.The maniac winds, divorcingThe turtle from his mate,Raved through the leafy beeches,And left them desolate.Now May, with life and music,The blooming valley fills,And rears her flowery archesFor all the little rills.The minstrel bird of eveningComes back on joyous wings,And, like the harp's soft murmur,Is heard the gush of springs.And deep within the forestAre wedded turtles seen,Their nuptial chambers seeking,Their chambers close and green.The rugged trees are minglingTheir flowery sprays in love;The ivy climbs the laurel,To clasp the boughs above.They change—but thou, Lisena,Art cold while I complain:Why to thy lover onlyShould spring return in vain?
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
There sits a lovely maiden,The ocean murmuring nigh;She throws the hook, and watches;The fishes pass it by.A ring, with a red jewel,Is sparkling on her hand;Upon the hook she binds it,And flings it from the land.Uprises from the waterA hand like ivory fair.What gleams upon its finger?The golden ring is there.Uprises from the bottomA young and handsome knight;In golden scales he rises,That glitter in the light.The maid is pale with terror—"Nay, Knight of Ocean, nay,It was not thou I wanted;Let go the ring, I pray.""Ah, maiden, not to fishesThe bait of gold is thrown;Thy ring shall never leave me,And thou must be my own."
FROM THE GERMAN OF N. MÜELLER.
Beside the River of Tears, with branches low,And bitter leaves, the weeping-willows grow;The branches stream like the dishevelled hairOf women in the sadness of despair.On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh;The rocks moan wildly as it passes by;Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand,And not a flower adorns the dreary land.Then comes a child, whose face is like the sun,And dips the gloomy waters as they run,And waters all the region, and beholdThe ground is bright with blossoms manifold.Where fall the tears of love the rose appears,And where the ground is bright with friendship's tears,Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue,Spring, glittering with the cheerful drops like dew.The souls of mourners, all whose tears are dried,Like swans, come gently floating down the tide,Walk up the golden sands by which it flows,And in that Paradise of Tears repose.There every heart rejoins its kindred heart;There in a long embrace that none may part,Fulfilment meets desire, and that fair shoreBeholds its dwellers happy evermore.
FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO.
Rein in thy snorting charger!That stag but cheats thy sight;He is luring thee on to Windeck,With his seeming fear and flight.Now, where the mouldering turretsOf the outer gate arise,The knight gazed over the ruinsWhere the stag was lost to his eyes.The sun shone hot above him;The castle was still as death;He wiped the sweat from his forehead,With a deep and weary breath."Who now will bring me a beakerOf the rich old wine that here,In the choked-up vaults of Windeck,Has lain for many a year?"The careless words had scarcelyTime from his lips to fall,When the lady of Castle Windeck,Came round the ivy-wall.He saw the glorious maidenIn her snow-white drapery stand,The bunch of keys at her girdle,The beaker high in her hand.He quaffed that rich old vintage;With an eager lip he quaffed;But he took into his bosomA fire with the grateful draught.Her eyes' unfathomed brightness!The flowing gold of her hair!He folded his hands in homage,And murmured a lover's prayer.She gave him a look of pity,A gentle look of pain;And, quickly as he had seen her,She passed from his sight again.And ever, from that moment,He haunted the ruins there,A sleepless, restless wanderer,A watcher with despair.Ghost-like and pale he wandered,With a dreamy, haggard eye;He seemed not one of the living,And yet he could not die.'Tis said that the lady met him,When many years had past,And kissing his lips, released himFrom the burden of life at last.
Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines!In the soft light of these serenest skies;From the broad highland region, black with pines,Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise,Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves beholdIn rosy flushes on the virgin gold.There, rooted to the aërial shelves that wearThe glory of a brighter world, might springSweet flowers of heaven to scent the unbreathed air,And heaven's fleet messengers might rest the wingTo view the fair earth in its summer sleep,Silent, and cradled by the glimmering deep.Below you lie men's sepulchres, the oldEtrurian tombs, the graves of yesterday;The herd's white bones lie mixed with human mould,Yet up the radiant steeps that I surveyDeath never climbed, nor life's soft breath, with pain,Was yielded to the elements again.Ages of war have filled these plains with fear;How oft the hind has started at the clashOf spears, and yell of meeting armies here,Or seen the lightning of the battle flashFrom clouds, that rising with the thunder's sound,Hung like an earth-born tempest o'er the ground!Ah me! what armèd nations—Asian horde,And Libyan host, the Scythian and the GaulHave swept your base and through your passes poured,Like ocean-tides uprising at the callOf tyrant winds—against your rocky sideThe bloody billows dashed, and howled, and died!How crashed the towers before beleaguering foes,Sacked cities smoked and realms were rent in twain;And commonwealths against their rivals rose,Trode out their lives and earned the curse of Cain!While, in the noiseless air and light that flowedRound your fair brows, eternal Peace abode.Here pealed the impious hymn, and altar-flamesRose to false gods, a dream-begotten throng,Jove, Bacchus, Pan, and earlier, fouler names;While, as the unheeding ages passed along,Ye, from your station in the middle skies,Proclaimed the essential Goodness, strong and wise.In you the heart that sighs for freedom seeksHer image; there the winds no barrier know,Clouds come and rest and leave your fairy peaks;While even the immaterial Mind, below,And Thought, her wingèd offspring, chained by power,Pine silently for the redeeming hour.
A midnight black with clouds is in the sky;I seem to feel, upon my limbs, the weightOf its vast brooding shadow. All in vainTurns the tired eye in search of form; no starPierces the pitchy veil; no ruddy blaze,From dwellings lighted by the cheerful hearth,Tinges the flowering summits of the grass.No sound of life is heard, no village hum,Nor measured tramp of footstep in the path,Nor rush of wind, while, on the breast of Earth,I lie and listen to her mighty voice:A voice of many tones—sent up from streamsThat wander through the gloom, from woods unseenSwayed by the sweeping of the tides of air,From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day,And hollows of the great invisible hills,And sands that edge the ocean, stretching farInto the night—a melancholy sound!O Earth! dost thou too sorrow for the pastLike man thy offspring? Do I hear thee mournThy childhood's unreturning hours, thy springsGone with their genial airs and melodies,The gentle generations of thy flowers,And thy majestic groves of olden time,Perished with all their dwellers? Dost thou wailFor that fair age of which the poets tell,Ere yet the winds grew keen with frost, or fireFell with the rains or spouted from the hills,To blast thy greenness, while the virgin nightWas guiltless and salubrious as the day?Or haply dost thou grieve for those that die—For living things that trod thy paths awhile,The love of thee and heaven—and now they sleepMixed with the shapeless dust on which thy herdsTrample and graze? I too must grieve with thee,O'er loved ones lost. Their graves are far awayUpon thy mountains; yet, while I reclineAlone, in darkness, on thy naked soil,The mighty nourisher and burial-placeOf man, I feel that I embrace their dust.Ha! how the murmur deepens! I perceiveAnd tremble at its dreadful import. EarthUplifts a general cry for guilt and wrong,And heaven is listening. The forgotten gravesOf the heart-broken utter forth their plaint.The dust of her who loved and was betrayed,And him who died neglected in his age;The sepulchres of those who for mankindLabored, and earned the recompense of scorn;Ashes of martyrs for the truth, and bonesOf those who, in the strife for liberty,Were beaten down, their corses given to dogs,Their names to infamy, all find a voice.The nook in which the captive, overtoiled,Lay down to rest at last, and that which holdsChildhood's sweet blossoms, crushed by cruel hands,Send up a plaintive sound. From battle-fields,Where heroes madly drave and dashed their hostsAgainst each other, rises up a noise,As if the armèd multitudes of deadStirred in their heavy slumber. Mournful tonesCome from the green abysses of the sea—A story of the crimes the guilty soughtTo hide beneath its waves. The glens, the groves,Paths in the thicket, pools of running brook,And banks and depths of lake, and streets and lanesOf cities, now that living sounds are hushed,Murmur of guilty force and treachery.Here, where I rest, the vales of ItalyAre round me, populous from early time,And field of the tremendous warfare waged'Twixt good and evil. Who, alas! shall dareInterpret to man's ear the mingled voiceThat comes from her old dungeons yawning nowTo the black air, her amphitheatres,Where the dew gathers on the mouldering stones,And fanes of banished gods, and open tombs,And roofless palaces, and streets and hearthsOf cities dug from their volcanic graves?I hear a sound of many languages,The utterance of nations now no more,Driven out by mightier, as the days of heavenChase one another from the sky. The bloodOf freemen shed by freemen, till strange lordsCame in their hour of weakness, and made fastThe yoke that yet is worn, cries out to heaven.What then shall cleanse thy bosom, gentle Earth,From all its painful memories of guilt?The whelming flood, or the renewing fire,Or the slow change of time?—that so, at last,The horrid tale of perjury and strife,Murder and spoil, which men call history,May seem a fable, like the inventions toldBy poets of the gods of Greece. O thou,Who sittest far beyond the Atlantic deep,Among the sources of thy glorious streams,My native Land of Groves! a newer pageIn the great record of the world is thine;Shall it be fairer? Fear, and friendly Hope,And Envy, watch the issue, while the lines,By which thou shalt be judged, are written down.
This is the church which Pisa, great and free,Reared to St. Catharine. How the time-stained walls,That earthquakes shook not from their poise, appearTo shiver in the deep and voluble tonesRolled from the organ! Underneath my feetThere lies the lid of a sepulchral vault.The image of an armèd knight is gravenUpon it, clad in perfect panoply—Cuishes, and greaves, and cuirass, with barred helm,Grauntleted hand, and sword, and blazoned shield.Around, in Gothic characters, worn dimBy feet of worshippers, are traced his name,And birth, and death, and words of eulogy.Why should I pore upon them? This old tomb,This effigy, the strange disusèd formOf this inscription, eloquently showHis history. Let me clothe in fitting wordsThe thoughts they breathe, and frame his epitaph:"He whose forgotten dust for centuriesHas lain beneath this stone, was one in whomAdventure, and endurance, and emprise,Exalted the mind's faculties and strungThe body's sinews. Brave he was in fight,Courteous in banquet, scornful of repose,And bountiful, and cruel, and devout,And quick to draw the sword in private feud,He pushed his quarrels to the death, yet prayedThe saints as fervently on bended kneesAs ever shaven cenobite. He lovedAs fiercely as he fought. He would have borneThe maid that pleased him from her bower by nightTo his hill castle, as the eagle bearsHis victim from the fold, and rolled the rocksOn his pursuers. He aspired to seeHis native Pisa queen and arbitressOf cities; earnestly for her he raisedHis voice in council, and affronted deathIn battle-field, and climbed the galley's deck,And brought the captured flag of Genoa back,Or piled upon the Arno's crowded quayThe glittering spoils of the tamed Saracen.He was not born to brook the stranger's yoke,But would have joined the exiles that withdrewForever, when the Florentine broke inThe gates of Pisa, and bore off the boltsFor trophies—but he died before that day."He lived, the impersonation of an ageThat never shall return. His soul of fireWas kindled by the breath of the rude timeHe lived in. Now a gentler race succeeds,Shuddering at blood; the effeminate cavalier,Turning his eyes from the reproachful past,And from the hopeless future, gives to ease,And love, and music, his inglorious life."
Ay, this is freedom!—these pure skiesWere never stained with village smoke:The fragrant wind, that through them flies,Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.Here, with my rifle and my steed,And her who left the world for me,I plant me, where the red deer feedIn the green desert—and am free.For here the fair savannas knowNo barriers in the bloomy grass;Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.In pastures, measureless as air,The bison is my noble game;The bounding elk, whose antlers tearThe branches, falls before my aim.Mine are the river-fowl that screamFrom the long stripe of waving sedge;The bear that marks my weapon's gleam,Hides vainly in the forest's edge;In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;The brinded catamount, that liesHigh in the boughs to watch his prey,Even in the act of springing, dies.With what free growth the elm and planeFling their huge arms across my way,Gray, old, and cumbered with a trainOf vines, as huge, and old, and gray!Free stray the lucid streams, and findNo taint in these fresh lawns and shades;Free spring the flowers that scent the windWhere never scythe has swept the glades.Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sereThe heavy herbage of the ground,Gathers his annual harvest here,With roaring like the battle's sound,And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:I meet the flames with flames again,And at my door they cower and die.Here, from dim woods, the aged pastSpeaks solemnly; and I beholdThe boundless future in the vastAnd lonely river, seaward rolled.Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,And trains the bordering vines, whose blueBright clusters tempt me as I pass?Broad are these streams—my steed obeys,Plunges, and bears me through the tide.Wide are these woods—I thread the mazeOf giant stems, nor ask a guide.I hunt till day's last glimmer diesO'er woody vale and grassy height;And kind the voice and glad the eyesThat welcome my return at night.
What heroes from the woodland sprung,When, through the fresh-awakened land,The thrilling cry of freedom rung,And to the work of warfare strungThe yeoman's iron hand!Hills flung the cry to hills around,And ocean-mart replied to mart,And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,Pealed far away the startling soundInto the forest's heart.Then marched the brave from rocky steep,From mountain-river swift and cold;The borders of the stormy deep,The vales where gathered waters sleep,Sent up the strong and bold,—As if the very earth againGrew quick with God's creating breath,And, from the sods of grove and glen,Rose ranks of lion-hearted menTo battle to the death.The wife, whose babe first smiled that day,The fair fond bride of yestereve,And aged sire and matron gray,Saw the loved warriors haste away,And deemed it sin to grieve.Already had the strife begun;Already blood, on Concord's plain,Along the springing grass had run,And blood had flowed at Lexington,Like brooks of April rain.That death-stain on the vernal swardHallowed to freedom all the shore;In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—The footstep of a foreign lordProfaned the soil no more.
Matron! the children of whose love,Each to his grave, in youth have passed;And now the mould is heaped aboveThe dearest and the last!Bride! who dost wear the widow's veilBefore the wedding flowers are pale!Ye deem the human heart enduresNo deeper, bitterer grief than yours.Yet there are pangs of keener woe,Of which the sufferers never speak,Nor to the world's cold pity showThe tears that scald the cheek,Wrung from their eyelids by the shameAnd guilt of those they shrink to name,Whom once they loved with cheerful will,And love, though fallen and branded, still.Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead,Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve,And reverenced are the tears they shed,And honored ye who grieve.The praise of those who sleep in earth,The pleasant memory of their worth,The hope to meet when life is past,Shall heal the tortured mind at last.But ye, who for the living lostThat agony in secret bear,Who shall with soothing words accostThe strength of your despair?Grief for your sake is scorn for themWhom ye lament and all condemn;And o'er the world of spirits liesA gloom from which ye turn your eyes.