The Petrified Nest.[89]

This bulfinch’ nest, which you behold,For thirty pence to me was sold:—Bound round with tape, and fix’d in place,Was petrified in twelve months’ space;Then taken down, brought to the inn,Where “Mother Shipton’s” sign is seen—(Herself, the dear old lady’s drawnIn antique mantle, hood, and gown,)—On which is writ, as trav’lers see,The following lines of poetry—“Near to this petrifying well,I first drew breath, as records tell.”* * * * *O Knaresboro’, Knaresboro’! charms are thine;Thee,[90]thousand beauties do combine:Oh! would that thou wert my abode,—Thou glorious spot inwrought by God!With Him no workman can compare,His skilful works are everywhere:And He alone did carve the world,Round which the mighty ocean curl’d.Incumbent rocks, as they were hurl’d,And mountains, tow’ring to the skies,And verdant valleys, greet our eyes.Here, ancient castles (once so grand)Show marks of Time’s defacing hand;Some, shatter’d by war’s hissing shot,Leave only stones to tell the spot;Whilst others, towers still abideTo mourn, alas! their former pride:And thine, O Knaresboro’, shares the fall—Now little but a crumbling wall.

This bulfinch’ nest, which you behold,

For thirty pence to me was sold:—

Bound round with tape, and fix’d in place,

Was petrified in twelve months’ space;

Then taken down, brought to the inn,

Where “Mother Shipton’s” sign is seen—

(Herself, the dear old lady’s drawn

In antique mantle, hood, and gown,)—

On which is writ, as trav’lers see,

The following lines of poetry—

“Near to this petrifying well,

I first drew breath, as records tell.”

* * * * *

O Knaresboro’, Knaresboro’! charms are thine;Thee,[90]thousand beauties do combine:Oh! would that thou wert my abode,—Thou glorious spot inwrought by God!With Him no workman can compare,His skilful works are everywhere:And He alone did carve the world,Round which the mighty ocean curl’d.Incumbent rocks, as they were hurl’d,And mountains, tow’ring to the skies,And verdant valleys, greet our eyes.Here, ancient castles (once so grand)Show marks of Time’s defacing hand;Some, shatter’d by war’s hissing shot,Leave only stones to tell the spot;Whilst others, towers still abideTo mourn, alas! their former pride:And thine, O Knaresboro’, shares the fall—Now little but a crumbling wall.

O Knaresboro’, Knaresboro’! charms are thine;

Thee,[90]thousand beauties do combine:

Oh! would that thou wert my abode,—

Thou glorious spot inwrought by God!

With Him no workman can compare,

His skilful works are everywhere:

And He alone did carve the world,

Round which the mighty ocean curl’d.

Incumbent rocks, as they were hurl’d,

And mountains, tow’ring to the skies,

And verdant valleys, greet our eyes.

Here, ancient castles (once so grand)

Show marks of Time’s defacing hand;

Some, shatter’d by war’s hissing shot,

Leave only stones to tell the spot;

Whilst others, towers still abide

To mourn, alas! their former pride:

And thine, O Knaresboro’, shares the fall—

Now little but a crumbling wall.

[89]These lines were composed to accompany the nest, which the author purchased at the little museum of petrified curiosities in “Mother Shipton’s” Inn, situated about a quarter of a mile from the Dropping Wells at Knaresborough, and which he presented to his much respected friend and benefactor, J. Cutcliffe, Esq., then residing at Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire, August, 1865.

[90]Use the article “a.”

The fearless monarch—old, yet hale,More proud than in his youth—Laughs and enjoys the passing gale,Is happy; and—forsooth—He’s like a king (who chance be good)Surrounded by his court,Or like a lord of merry mood,Obtains a meet report.He loves the fair one’s gentle touch,The squeeze of hardier hands;And with a bow—no elms can match—Conveys “he understands.”Two hundred winters now have fledSince forth the seedling came;A hundred more may crown his head,Ere his is but a name.Soft zephyrs shall caress his crown,And curl around his form;Horus, of old, shall oft go down;While many a dreadful stormShall drench the monarch to the skin,And ravage Bagot’s Park,Ere his stout heart shall yield withinIts noble coat of bark.Though grand his mien, he never boasts,Nor e’er usurps the green;But loves to see the minor hostsSalute his distant queen.[93]Many a tourist scans this oak:[94]Some, measuring round his base,[95]Exclaim, “’Tis worth a march to lookUpon his fine old face!”Now when he’s angry (true ’tis notThat often he doth frown),And when the winds, concerting, plotTo hurl him from his throne,’Tis then he asserts his majesty,And lifts his powerful voice;But when the storm hath passèd by,You will again rejoiceTo see him as he deigns to laughAnd gently bend his head,Inviting you to come, and quaffUpon the grassy bed,—(On which, and ’round about, regaleThe antler’d buck, and deer,And goats, and feather’d tribes,) t’inhaleThe perfumes of the year.Profoundly silent,[96]acres layInvig’rated by Time;Whilst shelt’ring woodlands make them gay,And deck the favour’d clime.O! may’st thou[97]live to teach the youngThe secret of that gift,Through which thou’st grown so great, so strong,Before thy trunk is rift;That each may wear upon his brow,Like thine—an honest mark,And so retain, as thou dost now,The pride of “Bagot’s Park.”[98]

The fearless monarch—old, yet hale,More proud than in his youth—Laughs and enjoys the passing gale,Is happy; and—forsooth—

The fearless monarch—old, yet hale,

More proud than in his youth—

Laughs and enjoys the passing gale,

Is happy; and—forsooth—

He’s like a king (who chance be good)Surrounded by his court,Or like a lord of merry mood,Obtains a meet report.

He’s like a king (who chance be good)

Surrounded by his court,

Or like a lord of merry mood,

Obtains a meet report.

He loves the fair one’s gentle touch,The squeeze of hardier hands;And with a bow—no elms can match—Conveys “he understands.”

He loves the fair one’s gentle touch,

The squeeze of hardier hands;

And with a bow—no elms can match—

Conveys “he understands.”

Two hundred winters now have fledSince forth the seedling came;A hundred more may crown his head,Ere his is but a name.

Two hundred winters now have fled

Since forth the seedling came;

A hundred more may crown his head,

Ere his is but a name.

Soft zephyrs shall caress his crown,And curl around his form;Horus, of old, shall oft go down;While many a dreadful storm

Soft zephyrs shall caress his crown,

And curl around his form;

Horus, of old, shall oft go down;

While many a dreadful storm

Shall drench the monarch to the skin,And ravage Bagot’s Park,Ere his stout heart shall yield withinIts noble coat of bark.

Shall drench the monarch to the skin,

And ravage Bagot’s Park,

Ere his stout heart shall yield within

Its noble coat of bark.

Though grand his mien, he never boasts,Nor e’er usurps the green;But loves to see the minor hostsSalute his distant queen.[93]

Though grand his mien, he never boasts,

Nor e’er usurps the green;

But loves to see the minor hosts

Salute his distant queen.[93]

Many a tourist scans this oak:[94]Some, measuring round his base,[95]Exclaim, “’Tis worth a march to lookUpon his fine old face!”

Many a tourist scans this oak:[94]

Some, measuring round his base,[95]

Exclaim, “’Tis worth a march to look

Upon his fine old face!”

Now when he’s angry (true ’tis notThat often he doth frown),And when the winds, concerting, plotTo hurl him from his throne,

Now when he’s angry (true ’tis not

That often he doth frown),

And when the winds, concerting, plot

To hurl him from his throne,

’Tis then he asserts his majesty,And lifts his powerful voice;But when the storm hath passèd by,You will again rejoice

’Tis then he asserts his majesty,

And lifts his powerful voice;

But when the storm hath passèd by,

You will again rejoice

To see him as he deigns to laughAnd gently bend his head,Inviting you to come, and quaffUpon the grassy bed,—

To see him as he deigns to laugh

And gently bend his head,

Inviting you to come, and quaff

Upon the grassy bed,—

(On which, and ’round about, regaleThe antler’d buck, and deer,And goats, and feather’d tribes,) t’inhaleThe perfumes of the year.

(On which, and ’round about, regale

The antler’d buck, and deer,

And goats, and feather’d tribes,) t’inhale

The perfumes of the year.

Profoundly silent,[96]acres layInvig’rated by Time;Whilst shelt’ring woodlands make them gay,And deck the favour’d clime.

Profoundly silent,[96]acres lay

Invig’rated by Time;

Whilst shelt’ring woodlands make them gay,

And deck the favour’d clime.

O! may’st thou[97]live to teach the youngThe secret of that gift,Through which thou’st grown so great, so strong,Before thy trunk is rift;That each may wear upon his brow,Like thine—an honest mark,And so retain, as thou dost now,The pride of “Bagot’s Park.”[98]

O! may’st thou[97]live to teach the young

The secret of that gift,

Through which thou’st grown so great, so strong,

Before thy trunk is rift;

That each may wear upon his brow,

Like thine—an honest mark,

And so retain, as thou dost now,

The pride of “Bagot’s Park.”[98]

[91]Supposed to be more than two centuries old.

[92]In Staffordshire.

[93]Another very large oak, called the “Queen.”

[94]The King.

[95]About twenty-four feet round, as measured by the author (of the poem) and his friend, Mr. E. Emery, of Abbots Bromley.

[96]Land, in its forest-like condition.

[97]The “Kingly Oak”.

[98]This poem was composed during the author’s visit to his friend, J. C——, Newcastle-under-Lyme, Sept., 1865.

(An Exhortation to the Volunteers)

Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding,Don your pouches and rifles—the bugle is sounding;As our fathers of old quickly ’rose for the fray—Up, up, and reply to its chivalrous lay:And although its shrill blast bears no tidings of war,Nor the boom of the gun on the ocean afarTells of death and destruction, yet of you we have needFor the weal of our Country, our Throne, and our Creed.Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding,Don your pouches and rifles—the bugle is sounding;As our fathers of old quickly ’rose for the fray—Up, up, and reply to its chivalrous lay.Go forth, my brave comrades! the bugle hath sounded;As of old let the foemen, who dare, be confounded;But, thank God, there’s no foe—there’s no enemy nearTo encounter the arm of our brave Volunteer:Yet of you we have need, for our Throne and our hearthWill be safe whilst protected by men of such worth:—Therefore comrades go forth with a smile and a cheer,For our country hath hope in the brave Volunteer.Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.March on, my brave comrades! the bugle’s still sounding;On your path the hurrahs of a nation’s resounding;And on yon foremost plain where the host shall deploy,There shall echo the anthem of love and of joy:There the contest of peace shall envelop the wold,While the blue waves are dancing in spangles of gold;While the clouds from your rifles obscure the blithe sky,We’ll reflect and thank God there’s no foe to defy!—Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.

Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding,

Don your pouches and rifles—the bugle is sounding;

As our fathers of old quickly ’rose for the fray—

Up, up, and reply to its chivalrous lay:

And although its shrill blast bears no tidings of war,

Nor the boom of the gun on the ocean afar

Tells of death and destruction, yet of you we have need

For the weal of our Country, our Throne, and our Creed.

Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding,

Don your pouches and rifles—the bugle is sounding;

As our fathers of old quickly ’rose for the fray—

Up, up, and reply to its chivalrous lay.

Go forth, my brave comrades! the bugle hath sounded;As of old let the foemen, who dare, be confounded;But, thank God, there’s no foe—there’s no enemy nearTo encounter the arm of our brave Volunteer:Yet of you we have need, for our Throne and our hearthWill be safe whilst protected by men of such worth:—Therefore comrades go forth with a smile and a cheer,For our country hath hope in the brave Volunteer.Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.

Go forth, my brave comrades! the bugle hath sounded;

As of old let the foemen, who dare, be confounded;

But, thank God, there’s no foe—there’s no enemy near

To encounter the arm of our brave Volunteer:

Yet of you we have need, for our Throne and our hearth

Will be safe whilst protected by men of such worth:—

Therefore comrades go forth with a smile and a cheer,

For our country hath hope in the brave Volunteer.

Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.

March on, my brave comrades! the bugle’s still sounding;On your path the hurrahs of a nation’s resounding;And on yon foremost plain where the host shall deploy,There shall echo the anthem of love and of joy:There the contest of peace shall envelop the wold,While the blue waves are dancing in spangles of gold;While the clouds from your rifles obscure the blithe sky,We’ll reflect and thank God there’s no foe to defy!—Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.

March on, my brave comrades! the bugle’s still sounding;

On your path the hurrahs of a nation’s resounding;

And on yon foremost plain where the host shall deploy,

There shall echo the anthem of love and of joy:

There the contest of peace shall envelop the wold,

While the blue waves are dancing in spangles of gold;

While the clouds from your rifles obscure the blithe sky,

We’ll reflect and thank God there’s no foe to defy!—

Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.

[99]Composed on the occasion of the first Volunteer Review at Dover, on Easter Monday, 22nd April, 1867.

76, Upper Ebury Street, Pimlico, S.W.,6th May, 1865.

My Lord,I’ve scann’d your answer to my meek request,Which prompts the feeling in my studious breast—A silent hoping—that, some future day,My pen may gain thy Lordship’s solacy.* * * * *Being train’d to disappointment, trust me, lord,I lie not down; but steadfast to my word,Shall persevere with all my heart and soul;Shall still dip pens into the inken-bowl;Shall strive to write my F (two) o o (and) t,And trust they’ll grace a book of poetry,—If not of merit such as Wits admire,I must expect their silence, or satire:Ah! should it be the latter, I obtain,’Twill be encouragement to try again.O, had I but a tithe of Alfred’s[100]spark,I’d launch again my little hopeful bark,Into the ocean of my soul’s delight!Would prose all day, and sometimes half the night;Would scribble out blank verse, or couplets, free;Would ’queath its pages to futurity.And when my sand-glass had run out its last,—My eyes for ever had been closed and fast,—Perchance some kindred creature would have fix’dOn some plain stone, the lines herewith annex’d:—“Oh! grant, here—reader, but one moment’s pause—Behold—this man did ransack o’er his brain;And found a word or two to help the cause,So strove to rhythm them in humble strain.”* * * * *But ere, my lord, I stop my feeble muse,I ask of thee, and feel thou’lt not refuse,To send me back those manuscripts of mine—That I may write them in corrected line:And when my scroll[101]is publish’d, I shall craveYour Lordship’s care of one. (Now, to be grave)—Pray give allowance for my ignorance—If I am pert; if I, through lack of sense,Have trespass’d on your Lordship’s valued time—Some specimens of my attempted rhyme.’Tis not my wish to cornet forth my name,Nor can I e’er expect to gather fame,But only hope, my lord, you kindly willAssist me up the literary hill.

My Lord,I’ve scann’d your answer to my meek request,Which prompts the feeling in my studious breast—A silent hoping—that, some future day,My pen may gain thy Lordship’s solacy.

My Lord,

I’ve scann’d your answer to my meek request,

Which prompts the feeling in my studious breast—

A silent hoping—that, some future day,

My pen may gain thy Lordship’s solacy.

* * * * *

Being train’d to disappointment, trust me, lord,I lie not down; but steadfast to my word,Shall persevere with all my heart and soul;Shall still dip pens into the inken-bowl;Shall strive to write my F (two) o o (and) t,And trust they’ll grace a book of poetry,—If not of merit such as Wits admire,I must expect their silence, or satire:Ah! should it be the latter, I obtain,’Twill be encouragement to try again.O, had I but a tithe of Alfred’s[100]spark,I’d launch again my little hopeful bark,Into the ocean of my soul’s delight!Would prose all day, and sometimes half the night;Would scribble out blank verse, or couplets, free;Would ’queath its pages to futurity.And when my sand-glass had run out its last,—My eyes for ever had been closed and fast,—Perchance some kindred creature would have fix’dOn some plain stone, the lines herewith annex’d:—“Oh! grant, here—reader, but one moment’s pause—Behold—this man did ransack o’er his brain;And found a word or two to help the cause,So strove to rhythm them in humble strain.”

Being train’d to disappointment, trust me, lord,

I lie not down; but steadfast to my word,

Shall persevere with all my heart and soul;

Shall still dip pens into the inken-bowl;

Shall strive to write my F (two) o o (and) t,

And trust they’ll grace a book of poetry,—

If not of merit such as Wits admire,

I must expect their silence, or satire:

Ah! should it be the latter, I obtain,

’Twill be encouragement to try again.

O, had I but a tithe of Alfred’s[100]spark,

I’d launch again my little hopeful bark,

Into the ocean of my soul’s delight!

Would prose all day, and sometimes half the night;

Would scribble out blank verse, or couplets, free;

Would ’queath its pages to futurity.

And when my sand-glass had run out its last,—

My eyes for ever had been closed and fast,—

Perchance some kindred creature would have fix’d

On some plain stone, the lines herewith annex’d:—

“Oh! grant, here—reader, but one moment’s pause—

Behold—this man did ransack o’er his brain;

And found a word or two to help the cause,

So strove to rhythm them in humble strain.”

* * * * *

But ere, my lord, I stop my feeble muse,I ask of thee, and feel thou’lt not refuse,To send me back those manuscripts of mine—That I may write them in corrected line:And when my scroll[101]is publish’d, I shall craveYour Lordship’s care of one. (Now, to be grave)—Pray give allowance for my ignorance—If I am pert; if I, through lack of sense,Have trespass’d on your Lordship’s valued time—Some specimens of my attempted rhyme.’Tis not my wish to cornet forth my name,Nor can I e’er expect to gather fame,But only hope, my lord, you kindly willAssist me up the literary hill.

But ere, my lord, I stop my feeble muse,

I ask of thee, and feel thou’lt not refuse,

To send me back those manuscripts of mine—

That I may write them in corrected line:

And when my scroll[101]is publish’d, I shall crave

Your Lordship’s care of one. (Now, to be grave)—

Pray give allowance for my ignorance—

If I am pert; if I, through lack of sense,

Have trespass’d on your Lordship’s valued time—

Some specimens of my attempted rhyme.

’Tis not my wish to cornet forth my name,

Nor can I e’er expect to gather fame,

But only hope, my lord, you kindly will

Assist me up the literary hill.

I am, My Lord,

Your Lordship’s most obedient Servant,

EDWARD E. FOOT.

To the Right Honorable Viscount Palmerston, K.G. &c., Cambridge House, Piccadilly, W.C.

[100]Tennyson, poet laureat.

[101]Book.

Pray, let my pen interpret nowThe silent throbbings of my heart,—Believe me when I make this vow—My gratitude can ne’er depart.Thou hast rebuked me, I must own,With smart precision, and ’tis just;But still there’s with it meetly flownThe rod of love, which ne’er can rust.Oh! think not this, “that I can beA creature without gratitude:”On foreign lands; the briny sea;In north and southern latitude,I’ve ponder’d ’neath the starry height—Thank’d thee, dear John, my dearest friend;Dwelt o’er past pleasures with delight,And shall till Death defines my end.Then, let no angry thoughts possessYour mind, or mine; my mind, nor your’s;I seek to offer you redress;And when thine eye upon it soars,You, too, I’m sure, will say (with me,)“Come what there may—our love’s the same.”So now, dear friend, pray let there beNo future enmity, or blame.

Pray, let my pen interpret nowThe silent throbbings of my heart,—Believe me when I make this vow—My gratitude can ne’er depart.

Pray, let my pen interpret now

The silent throbbings of my heart,—

Believe me when I make this vow—

My gratitude can ne’er depart.

Thou hast rebuked me, I must own,With smart precision, and ’tis just;But still there’s with it meetly flownThe rod of love, which ne’er can rust.

Thou hast rebuked me, I must own,

With smart precision, and ’tis just;

But still there’s with it meetly flown

The rod of love, which ne’er can rust.

Oh! think not this, “that I can beA creature without gratitude:”On foreign lands; the briny sea;In north and southern latitude,

Oh! think not this, “that I can be

A creature without gratitude:”

On foreign lands; the briny sea;

In north and southern latitude,

I’ve ponder’d ’neath the starry height—Thank’d thee, dear John, my dearest friend;Dwelt o’er past pleasures with delight,And shall till Death defines my end.

I’ve ponder’d ’neath the starry height—

Thank’d thee, dear John, my dearest friend;

Dwelt o’er past pleasures with delight,

And shall till Death defines my end.

Then, let no angry thoughts possessYour mind, or mine; my mind, nor your’s;I seek to offer you redress;And when thine eye upon it soars,You, too, I’m sure, will say (with me,)“Come what there may—our love’s the same.”So now, dear friend, pray let there beNo future enmity, or blame.

Then, let no angry thoughts possess

Your mind, or mine; my mind, nor your’s;

I seek to offer you redress;

And when thine eye upon it soars,

You, too, I’m sure, will say (with me,)

“Come what there may—our love’s the same.”

So now, dear friend, pray let there be

No future enmity, or blame.

[102]Composed on the occasion of receiving a letter from his great friend, J. Cutcliffe, Esq., complaining of the Author’s negligence in correspondence, and which “few lines” form’d part of his letter, in reply. 1865.

Fill the punch-bowl to the brim,Merry be—’tis Christmas-time,In it let sliced lemons swim,’Til the midnight bell doth chime.Eye the holly, fresh and green,Intertwined with mistletoe;Cast the ashen faggot[104]in,Fan it till it crack and glow.Pass the rosy goblet round;Bathe thy lips in liquors choice;Pour thy pleasure out in sound;Make an effort with thy voice:Thus enhance the jubilee—Let fair damsels lead the songs,Follow them, in harmony;For with music love belongs.Haste ye, and repeat the glee,Solo-song, or madrigal:—Quoth the host—“It pleases me,Bravo!—thou hast sung it well.”Hark! the church-clock, striking twelve,Tingles through the merry hall;Put the tankard on the shelf—Rich or poor,—and stop the ball.[105]Now, with solemn gratitude,Thank Him, who provides us cheer;And with equal promptitudeReverence the fast fleeting year.Spend the Sabbath, (’tis the lastThat will count in ’sixty-four,)—With a right becoming fast,’Til the Monday sun shall soar.Then with seemly merriment,’Neath the mistletoe be gay;And with chasty sentimentJoin the choral roundelay.Dance together, young and old,To the sound of violin:Who will venture—who so bold—To assert it is a sin?—Thus, for youths, in measured pace,To trip o’er the planken floor;Parents, with their wonted grace,Skipping as in days of yore?No! this never can be sin,—So dance on—enjoy the hour;And when done—go, think of Him,Who, alone, can blessings show’r.

Fill the punch-bowl to the brim,Merry be—’tis Christmas-time,In it let sliced lemons swim,’Til the midnight bell doth chime.

Fill the punch-bowl to the brim,

Merry be—’tis Christmas-time,

In it let sliced lemons swim,

’Til the midnight bell doth chime.

Eye the holly, fresh and green,Intertwined with mistletoe;Cast the ashen faggot[104]in,Fan it till it crack and glow.

Eye the holly, fresh and green,

Intertwined with mistletoe;

Cast the ashen faggot[104]in,

Fan it till it crack and glow.

Pass the rosy goblet round;Bathe thy lips in liquors choice;Pour thy pleasure out in sound;Make an effort with thy voice:

Pass the rosy goblet round;

Bathe thy lips in liquors choice;

Pour thy pleasure out in sound;

Make an effort with thy voice:

Thus enhance the jubilee—Let fair damsels lead the songs,Follow them, in harmony;For with music love belongs.

Thus enhance the jubilee—

Let fair damsels lead the songs,

Follow them, in harmony;

For with music love belongs.

Haste ye, and repeat the glee,Solo-song, or madrigal:—Quoth the host—“It pleases me,Bravo!—thou hast sung it well.”

Haste ye, and repeat the glee,

Solo-song, or madrigal:—

Quoth the host—“It pleases me,

Bravo!—thou hast sung it well.”

Hark! the church-clock, striking twelve,Tingles through the merry hall;Put the tankard on the shelf—Rich or poor,—and stop the ball.[105]

Hark! the church-clock, striking twelve,

Tingles through the merry hall;

Put the tankard on the shelf—

Rich or poor,—and stop the ball.[105]

Now, with solemn gratitude,Thank Him, who provides us cheer;And with equal promptitudeReverence the fast fleeting year.

Now, with solemn gratitude,

Thank Him, who provides us cheer;

And with equal promptitude

Reverence the fast fleeting year.

Spend the Sabbath, (’tis the lastThat will count in ’sixty-four,)—With a right becoming fast,’Til the Monday sun shall soar.

Spend the Sabbath, (’tis the last

That will count in ’sixty-four,)—

With a right becoming fast,

’Til the Monday sun shall soar.

Then with seemly merriment,’Neath the mistletoe be gay;And with chasty sentimentJoin the choral roundelay.

Then with seemly merriment,

’Neath the mistletoe be gay;

And with chasty sentiment

Join the choral roundelay.

Dance together, young and old,To the sound of violin:Who will venture—who so bold—To assert it is a sin?—

Dance together, young and old,

To the sound of violin:

Who will venture—who so bold—

To assert it is a sin?—

Thus, for youths, in measured pace,To trip o’er the planken floor;Parents, with their wonted grace,Skipping as in days of yore?

Thus, for youths, in measured pace,

To trip o’er the planken floor;

Parents, with their wonted grace,

Skipping as in days of yore?

No! this never can be sin,—So dance on—enjoy the hour;And when done—go, think of Him,Who, alone, can blessings show’r.

No! this never can be sin,—

So dance on—enjoy the hour;

And when done—go, think of Him,

Who, alone, can blessings show’r.

[103]Christmas Day, in this year, happened to be on Sunday.

[104]In Devonshire farmhouses, it is a very customary practice, on Christmas Eve, to put a number of wooden binders around an ashen or oaken faggot, and according to the quantity of them (the binders), so is the quantity of cider regulated for the evening’s entertainment.

[105]The dance.

THEDEATH, BURIAL, AND DESTRUCTIONOFBACCHUS;OR,THE FRUITS OF LASCIVIOUSNESS.

AN ALLEGORICAL POEM.

INTWO CANTOS.

ByE. E. FOOT.

Prologue.—It may be considered presumptuous of the Author that he should have dared to venture in the paths of Allegory; but since he has been guilty of doing so, he must bear whatever chastisement may be inflicted upon him. The Poem is intended, in the first instance, to illustrate in a figurative manner the frailty of the human mind—or rather, the natural propensity of the human heart—in the pursuit of pleasure; which, if not mercifully prevented by the interposition of Divine Providence, tends to create an insatiate desire for new and unattainable delights; fosters an intemperate habit; promotes an incessant craving after carnal joys; and which inevitably involves a person in the whirlpool of vice, and ultimately leads to the destruction of the Soul. In the second instance, to depict (according to the Author’s humble ideas) the manner of mystic glorification—instituted by the Sovereign of the Outer World—continually going on in the dominions of his Satanic Majesty; but which, to the unredeemed souls of departed creatures, is the sad state of everlasting torment, consequent to perdition. And thirdly, the Author hopes this representation[106]of the unblissful regions may have the effect of retarding, at least—in some degree, the appetite for the pleasures, or he would say: vanities of this life; and of eventually averting the evil and direful calamity, by—“Turning the hearts of the disobedient unto the wisdom of the just.”

[106]For it scarcely can be believed that there is such a place in reality—viz., of a tangible nature; but if so, in what direction of the boundless Profound can it be? and where are we to look for it?

Note.—The Author has taken the liberty to use the celestial deities in this poem in the category of planets, and to give to each of them the imaginary character of a person.

See, sweetly cluster’d, that gigantic vine,[107]Whose globes ambrosial swell with virgin wine? * * *There you behold, enthroned in majesty—With all the honors due to royaltyAnd state—the sovereign source of harmony!* * * * *A thousand branches stretch out far and wide,And every branch adds to her queenly pride:Yet she hath many sorrows to endure;For, as the season comes from year to year,The pruner’s blade (like as the surgeon’s knife)Makes deep incisions to prolong her life.Oh! how she mourns when one by one are fledThose purple beauties which she bore and bred,And nurtur’d in the glory of her age—The admiration of her country’s sage:Contrast her fan-like leaves with her choice fruit;Trace her frail topmost tendril to its root,When Horus[108]upon high sends down his beams,And sheds his golden bounty forth in streams,Beneath and round about her dwelling-place;And say—hast thou e’er seen such ample grace,One lovelier, or goodlier in mien,Than she, the great terrestrial vineyard Queen?Turn now and view those Oriental climes—The golden fountain of the rarest wines,To-day, resembling the to-day of yore,Yielding their complements of luscious store;Observe the varied hues, and fragrancy,When fiery Leo’s[109]in th’ ascendancy.’Twas there that Bacchus[110]strove t’obtain a glimpseWhilst the imperial company of nymphs,Assembled at the high command of Jove,Were interchanging sentiments of love!—And where Apollo,[111]with unusual strainsInspired his instrument, and thus obtainsThe fairest goddess of the mystic throng;Who, dumb with the enchantment of his song,Makes loving gestures that she heeds his suit;He, in return, becomes as equally mute:But his fair countenance pourtray’d his heart:Then full of joy they wing’d their golden cart,And vanish’d in th’ ethereal realms of bliss.Now, when the other nymphs Apollo miss,They veil’d their faces with their flowing hair,And smote their bosoms, sighing in despair,—Weeping lamentingly,—for each in vainHad sought the great musician’s hand to gain:Not as before—bewitchingly in gait—But lovelorn now, and openly awaitEach for a god or whomsoever mayPossess the courage to come there to play.Bacchus, not oftentimes as then so shrewd,Saw his advantage, and his aim pursued:He, great in stature, bearded to the waist,True to his character (refresh’d with rest),Avail’d himself of Leo’s brightest hour,And deign’d to love. Nought could withstand his power.Like a fat ox, his loins were fair to view,—The pith of happiness,—he never knewWhat sorrow was. Ashamed, the nymphs now hide,And in their hiding-place they scan his sideBut not a sound escapes their lovely lips:—The while, he taps a thousand globes and sipsUntil he staggers, and falls prone to ground:Then haste the nymphs, the god they circle round!’Tis vain attempting to describe the joyEach goddess felt as they tripp’d round so coy:—One, stray’ng beyond the bound’ry they had plann’d,Most inadvertently trod on his hand;Which ’lectrified the god! then he updrew,Rais’d both his arms, and, like a trumpet, blewA sound across the purple-cluster’d plain.Altho’ he lack’d Apollo’s dulcet strain,The nymphs admired him for his manly look,For when he moved the very vineprops shook;Yea—when he spake, the clouds obey’d his voice,And stood divided that he might rejoiceBeneath the oriental mid-day sky,With Sol direct on his revolving eye.His golden goblet, he with outstretch’d arms(Which, with the god, possess’d peculiar charms),Held forth towards the sun!—when there advancedA hundred nymphs, on whom, like fire he glanced:Bold as a warrior he induced them allTo come and drink from out his flowing bowl!The nymphs, unable to resist, attendObediently to Bacchus’s command:The god surveys them as they raise the cup,And, as they drink in turn, he fills it up;—When all have drunk their loving draught, the godLifts high the goblet, and vouchsafes a nod,And bids the mistress of the fairy throngArrange the company to join in song;She, in obedience to the god’s command,Waved her white beam, and thus commenc’d the band:—The high sopranos rock the fragrant breeze,And lift their voices up by slow degreesUntil they reach the pinnacle of sound;The first great stanza done, then, most profound,The sweet contraltos follow in their course—Ascending and descending with much forceAnd regulated emphasis, and then,Uniting, send into the sunnied mainOne burst of harmony! the god then leapt,And—overwhelm’d with ecstasy—he wept.* * * * *O, what a sight it must have been to seeGreat Bacchus on his throne of ivory,Reviewing those fair daughters of the moon,When they struck off their soul-enraptured tune!For there he sat, crown’d with the purple vine,And by his side his goblet of red wine:At every strain which lifted up his soulThe monarch smil’d, and bow’d, inclined the bowl:Again, again, he smote his sunburnt breast,And sent Orion[112]to hunt down a beast,—To Comus[113]also to prepare a feast,—That he might entertain the goddesses,And make them creatures of much happiness.So Bacchus, rev’ling thus in his desires,With flooded brain to heav’n at once aspires.His saffron body sweated down in rills.At length, o’erpower’d, he frenzically callsTo Jupiter,[114]“O Brother, come to me,Bring down five thousand gods to help the glee!O mighty and most gentle Venus,[115]give,Give gen’rously thy aid that I may live!—Bring with thee all thy own elect of stars,Invite our friends—the brave and glorious Mars,And lordly Herschel,[116]junior of the skies;And Mercury,[117]with those sharp propitious eyes:Tell Saturn,[118]also, that I would he’d comeTo share with me the comforts of my home:Earth, goodly creature, is already hereWith bountiful provision of good cheer:I fain would Sol invite, but fear my fate,Lest the great god should think himself too great:O! what a blaze of glory there would beIf he would condescend to join the gleeBut for an hour, or even but a half:O! would not Bacchus bid the guests to quaff,Each with a goblet bumper’d up to brim?And would not Bacchus even worship him?* * * * *’Tis best, perhaps, that Sol should not come down,For fear my darling Venus might be stol’n:So bid my chosen-ones bring all their moons!”—He pauses, mutters, bows his head, and swoons;Falls (but unhurt) with force upon the ground,Which vibrates earth and air for miles around.* * * * *Thus, senseless, for three hours low laid the god,And by his side his golden-headed rod.Then, gather’d ’round him, all the fairy hosts—Pale and affrighted, like so many ghosts—Perform a solemn requiem for his soul.Still stood the sun, and dark; but in the bowl,[119]The rosy liquid flamed a cubit high,To mourn poor Bacchus’ death: those standing byWithdrew in sorrow; one by one they fled,—For all conceiv’d their benefactor dead!Then rose a cloudling, circular in shape,Of matchless beauty, tinted like the grape;Its outer edge, fring’d round with silvery foil,Bent gently downwards, archlike, to the soil;So that an hemisphere of cloud conceal’dThe god’s huge body from the open field.To Bacchus’ prayers[120]the heavenly orbs attend,And with precision to the earth descend:They search the vineyard o’er from end to end;’Round and about they trip, with angels’ speed;Alas, they falter! then they (all agreed)Cry unto Bacchus—“Bacchus! Bacchus! where—Where art thou gone? Behold thy guests are here,—All clothed in kingly garments of the bestWe’ve come, as bidden, down to join the feast;Each with a garland delicately bloomed,And every one his instrument well tuned:Our cloud-wrought chariots in the heavens awaitTo take us back, each to his own retreat,And thou not here! Oh, cruel god, why this?Thou’st robbed us of anticipated bliss!—We heard your loud petition, and came down;But what is here? and where, where art thou gone?Fie on thee, god! Thou’rt treacherous indeed;For we have come to thee with utmost speed,Aroused, in joy, to expectation’s height,And hoped for day; but lo, ’tis all as night!”Then they confer, and hence resolved to flyBack to their mansions in the azure sky.* * * * *The clouds dispers’d, and Bacchus starts afresh,Drinks deep the purple, which inflames his flesh;Sends his rude orisons again on high;But they heed not his pray’rs: then, with a sigh,And almost mad, he strikes his breast, and saith:“Ye gods, be damn’d.” And now, all in a breath,He uttereth a prayer to him above,Beseeching, plaintively, the mighty Jove:“Oh, well-beloved Jove! I pray thee, hearMy tale of sorrow, which to thee I bear.O Jove, acquainted with my nature best,Thou know’st, alone, the cravings of my breast;Fann’d by the nymphs’ most inspirating strain,I sought the bowl, and fired my foolish brain:I cried aloud to thee, as Jupiter,But lacked, I ween, a right interpreter:To Venus and to Mars I rais’d my voice,For they were three respectively my choice;To Georgian-Herschel, and to Mercury;To Saturn, but ’twas vain. ’Twas vanity,I’ll own; yet was it not, O Jove, most cruel—Now I am old—to treat me as a fool?”So he continued venting loud his pray’r:Deserted and distracted to despair,He tried to lift the goblet, but he fail’d;His strength had fled, he found himself assail’dAnd at the gate of hell!—still struggling hard,He ope’d his mouth, but uttered not a word:He mock’d the gods with his fast fleeting breath;Gave up the ghost: thus met eternal death!* * * * *Three days, or more, the god lay prostrate, bare,With naught of covering save his ruffled hair,(And not a creature chancèd to come near,)Stretched to his full across his bed of leaves;His hands were clench’d, as firm as iron greaves;And there he laid; when Daphne,[121]passing by,Caught the reflection of his glaring eye(For Bacchus died not, as most mortal men,With eyes fast shut, but open to the sun),And, like a good Samaritan, went o’er:Rememb’ring well the visage which he bore,She exclaim’d aloud to her great lord[122]of heaven—(As she, poor nymph, was most severely smitten)—Crying, “Bassareus[123]lies breathless on the field!No wounds to show he has been gored or steel’d;And now, aghast, his eyes still move around,His lips are quivering, and I hear a soundLike that of Rhadamanthus (Judge of hell),But what his converse is I cannot tell.”Her lord came down, most sorrowful in look,Conn’d the dead body, and again betookHis brazen chariot in all haste, and rodeDown to the regions of the infernal god:There was rejoicing to a great extent:—A thousand fires lit up the firmament;A myriad spirits danced around the flames,Each calling Bacchus by a thousand names,And each, like Argus, had a hundred eyes,Which direfully glared across the den of lies;Their heads were horn’d, and each horn bore a lamp,Mark’d with the great immortal Pluto’s stamp;(Pluto[124]himself, being ninety leagues away,Was unacquainted with this revelry—Till Vulcan[125]forged a bolt with wings, and sentIt in a whirlwind unto Pluto’s tent;Therein it stood and wrote upon the wallThe brief particulars of the carnival!This mighty god,[126]astounded to the heart,Made hasty preparations to depart;Sent forth his voice, then ’roused his gloomy host,And travell’d ’round by the south-western coast.)And each one held two red-hot iron beams;Their breath ascended in sulphurous streams:They foamed and snorted, like hard-ridden horse,And fled across the grim and deathy courseWith comets’ speed; then stamp’d with awful forceTheir ponderous forms upon th’ upheaving ground,Which sent afar a hideous crackling sound:The foam ran down their breasts like molten flame,—Too dreadful to describe by any name;Their mouths, when open, were like rocky caves—Down their vast throats the Styx[127]rush’d in great waves,And when they spat, a stench obnoxious ’rose—Offensive to the most inurèd nose.Around their waists were slung huge buffalo horns(And farther down hung girdles of black thorns),With which they went three times a day for drink,And stood around that dread Avernus’ brink,[128]Without attempt from the foul task to shrink;Then, at a word, into the lake they went,Whose waters were of dreadful temperament:They plunged therein as horses gored to death,And sent forth pois’nous vapours with their breath.Three times a day the ghastly livid lakeTurn’d into blood, with which their thirst they’d slake:When brass-hair’d Vulcan struck his mighty gong,Erect they stood, and join’d in woful song,Another beat, they stretch’d their glaring eyes,And sent a shriek into the red-wrought skies;[129](Conceive a thousand organs thundering forth—From every point the compass to the north—The tone of every pipe encompassèdWithin their frames, then only ’t can be saidWhat was the shout those spirits sent abroadAt the command of this volcanic lord!)Once more he beat, they rais’d a dismal moan,—Sustain’d their voices till a day was gone:For whilst great Vulcan held his beam on high,They durst not breathe, nor even wink an eye.(Oh! what a shocking, melancholy fate,To be the vassals of such low estate:Dogs upon earth are angels in a heaven,Compared to those poor wretches who are drivenFrom south to north, from east to west, with wingsLike flaming firebrands, and whose mouths have stingsAs deadly in their touch as adders are:Their peace is worse than earth’s most direful war!)The wretches would have slept, but lo! a glareOf yellow lurid light shot through the air;And with it came a blast of mingled sounds,Like as the yellings of as many hounds:This shook the spirits’ nerves; they trembled, forThey saw and knew the cloud advancing boreGreat Pluto back to his imperial throne.In but a twinkling of an eye were flownA swarm of wingèd fiends with gold engraven plates,To summon forth th’ infernal potentatesTo meet their lord and emperor of hell.Then they return’d, their messages to tell.* * * * *Forth came the mighty host, great in their speed(Their fiery horses panting for the deed):And all sent on swift-wingèd, prong-like darts,Which bore the numbers of their brazen carts:’Twould take a day to count the numbers o’er:At length they advance with a continuous roar,Dividing as they sped the sulph’ral air,Midst fetid vapours like the fumes of war.Now as they approach with a most deaf’ning noise—Sixteen abreast arranged, to counterpoiseThe basement of the cloud on which they rode—The mighty host beheld, beheld their god!* * * * *Meanwhile—the mighty Vulcan (at his works),And all his host were welding monster dirksOf brass and steel; and in each point, an eyeWas fixèd to conduct it through the sky,Where it was plann’d that at a given wordEach instrument of death should fly abroadAt equal distances, directed straightTo meet the foe who dare oppose the fête.In warlike attitude th’ inferior fiendsStood all abreast, and facing the west winds,(Each held a dirk four cubits in the air,And on their breast were brazen shields of war,)—Full fifteen rows, each row a yard advanc’d:And in the rear ten thousand horses pranc’d,All cap’rison’d with choicest workmanship:Each rider held a silver-threaded whip,Of ponderous weight, which rested on his hipOn his right side; whilst on the left were hungA massive sabre and a silver gong.Behind them were arranged each curricle,To form a background to the spectacle:According to their numbers in rotation,And to the high or low degree of stationOf those great potentates, so did they stand—Prim in their aspect and exceeding’ grand.The chariots’ sides, inlaid with burnish’d gold,Reflected all surrounding them two-fold;On every roof there ’rose a tow’ring rod,Which bore the banner of each minor god;The charioteers wore helmets, wrought of brass;And all their faces shone like silver’d glass.From north to south three leagues of ground were dark,Through this great cloud incumbent o’er the park;And not a voice was heard, not e’en a breath,So strict was the command. (A second deathWas the sad fate for those who disobey’dTh’ injunctions and the laws therein decreed.)All, conscious that their lord was on his wayBack to his seat of fame and royalty,Now look’d direct towards the bloodshot heav’n,Through which the god of misery was driv’n;The lurid light increased its sickly tint,And shed its glare about the continent:Near to the zenith of the mystic mainAppear’d the shadow of th’ advancing train,—Small as a hand, but rapid in its growth,—As on they came upon the yellow path:Great as a mountain the dire shade had grown,When suddenly a dreadful blast was blownBy fifty heralds in the foremost cloud;They blew again, but fifty times more loud,So that the atmosphere of hell did quake,And caus’d a hissing like a python snake.Then came the thunder of the chariot wheels,Like cannons roaring on a thousand hills.A thousand chariots did the train compose:And then the tramping of the horse arose,Fell on the ears with dire and dreadful woeOf those who listen’d with dismay: when lo!The heavens open’d! * * * Vulcan struck his gong,And all the multitude burst forth in song:Which song appall’d th’ ambassador of earth,[130]—The great musician, minstrel, bard of mirth,—Who now was there with his attendant godsArray’d in splendour, holding silver rods,To greet the Emperor, as the monarch cameDown from the clouds in crimson-colour’d flame.* * * * *Apollo, garmented in robes of gold,—His stature like a giant to behold,—With voice unmatch’d in compass and in tone,Pour’d forth his song, which vibrated the zone:Its text was this—“Hail, Pluto, mighty king;”—Then all Apollo’s minstrels ’round him sing“Hail, Pluto, mighty King!” re-echoingThe song of triumph to the utmost boundsOf the dread region, in concordant sounds.The multitude manœuvred, gather’d in,And form’d an ambient circle; where, within,His Majesty appointed his descent.The vassals, marshall’d, to the rearward went.So that the inner ring contain’d the great,—Such as th’ renownèd Minos, magistrate,Androgeüs, his son; then, great in name,Stood Rhadamanthus, ’nother judge of fame;Æacus, Acheron; and poor Protheus, who,Vex’d with his form, into great Etna flew;And by his side Prometheus, martyr’d god,Who form’d and fired with life a moulded clod:There, terrible in mien, stood Mulciber,[131]—He, on his breast, a group of medals bore—Marks of distinction for those mighty thingsWhich he had wrought through ages past for kings;Then his son Cacus, junior god of fire;And next, perfidious Sisyphus, the liar;Then Erebus, son of the Invisible;[132]And grim old Charon, ferryman of hell.At equal distances those magnates stoodAbout this circle of great magnitudeMuch in themselves, but all subordinateTo Pluto; who, now in great pomp and state,Was in their midst: there He (awaiting himThe harbinger of joy—Earth’s seraphim)With pow’rful speech and accent, call’d aloud—“Come hither, O Apollo!” Forth went the god,When there uprose a nevious curling cloud,Great in circumference, and six fathoms up,Bulg’d at its sides, in form like as a cup,Less at its base; and round about the sameThere spread an horizontal ardent flame,So great the heat, that not a soul could dareApproach within ten fathoms of the flare:And on the rim of this most mystic vase—One fathom high—a bluish flame arose,Which shed an incense o’er the inner part;And warders stood thereon, each with a dart,Fierce in their look and ghastly in their mien:And farther down a girdle, red and green,Of furious fire, revolved around the shroudWhich hid the gods[133]from the obsequious crowd:And where, within, the arbitrators stay’dFor one whole hour, intent upon the dead—As to the burial of the god, and howHe should be welcom’d in the realms below;—For ’twas Apollo’s wish that he should beReceiv’d with pomp into eternity,And urged the matter to the full extent,Till Pluto graciously gave his consent.* * * * *The god,[134]now pleas’d, sent up a yellow shaft—Which Boreas,[135]mighty wind, away did waftAcross th’ unfathomable red abyss,—And which in transit caused a fearful hiss.When Vulcan, seeing, alone, the signal bound,Re-beat his gong,—the vassal host around,Quick as a flash of lightning, then upheldTheir polish’d dirks on high, and then re-yell’d!The mighty magistrates, obeying the sound,Inclined their heads, and knelt upon the ground:The while, Apollo (and his mirthful throng)Came forth, repeating the triumphant song—“Hail, Pluto, mighty King!”—around him slungHis instrument of joy,—his eye relitWith his accustom’d dignity and wit.Immediately, the cloud collaps’d and fled,And he, the lord of death, appeared glad:He stood erect, and, in the act of pray’r,Pour’d forth his orisons into the air:His pow’rful speech made all the host afraid,And instantly his mandates were obey’d:He spoke but once—his chariots were at hand,And round about him his attendants stand,—Each in apparel dazzling to the sight,—Their wings outspread in readiness for flight.Then Pluto look’d about the torrid space,Stepp’d in his chariot with a kingly grace,And rais’d his beam, full half a ton in weight:When (pointing to his own imperial seat,Which stood upon a mount encompass’d roundBy awful chasms and unstable ground,)He gave the word—the trumpets shook the vastWith the outpourings of their mighty blast!* * * * *The clouds divided, and the train pass’d through;And now the multitude shout out anew—“Hail, Pluto, mighty King!” great was the noise.The quivering earth dissolved into the skies.Above, below, around, was void and darkFor one whole day, until a vivid sparkOf crimson flame—in form a serpent’s sting—Shot forth towards the mountain of the king,And struck the base of the imperial throne,Which shook with awe; and all the earth did groan;A flash of light lit up the horrid zone;The atmosphere ’came full of monster frogs,Of winged porcupines, and howling dogs.

See, sweetly cluster’d, that gigantic vine,[107]

Whose globes ambrosial swell with virgin wine? * * *

There you behold, enthroned in majesty—

With all the honors due to royalty

And state—the sovereign source of harmony!

* * * * *

A thousand branches stretch out far and wide,And every branch adds to her queenly pride:Yet she hath many sorrows to endure;For, as the season comes from year to year,The pruner’s blade (like as the surgeon’s knife)Makes deep incisions to prolong her life.Oh! how she mourns when one by one are fledThose purple beauties which she bore and bred,And nurtur’d in the glory of her age—The admiration of her country’s sage:Contrast her fan-like leaves with her choice fruit;Trace her frail topmost tendril to its root,When Horus[108]upon high sends down his beams,And sheds his golden bounty forth in streams,Beneath and round about her dwelling-place;And say—hast thou e’er seen such ample grace,One lovelier, or goodlier in mien,Than she, the great terrestrial vineyard Queen?Turn now and view those Oriental climes—The golden fountain of the rarest wines,To-day, resembling the to-day of yore,Yielding their complements of luscious store;Observe the varied hues, and fragrancy,When fiery Leo’s[109]in th’ ascendancy.’Twas there that Bacchus[110]strove t’obtain a glimpseWhilst the imperial company of nymphs,Assembled at the high command of Jove,Were interchanging sentiments of love!—And where Apollo,[111]with unusual strainsInspired his instrument, and thus obtainsThe fairest goddess of the mystic throng;Who, dumb with the enchantment of his song,Makes loving gestures that she heeds his suit;He, in return, becomes as equally mute:But his fair countenance pourtray’d his heart:Then full of joy they wing’d their golden cart,And vanish’d in th’ ethereal realms of bliss.Now, when the other nymphs Apollo miss,They veil’d their faces with their flowing hair,And smote their bosoms, sighing in despair,—Weeping lamentingly,—for each in vainHad sought the great musician’s hand to gain:Not as before—bewitchingly in gait—But lovelorn now, and openly awaitEach for a god or whomsoever mayPossess the courage to come there to play.Bacchus, not oftentimes as then so shrewd,Saw his advantage, and his aim pursued:He, great in stature, bearded to the waist,True to his character (refresh’d with rest),Avail’d himself of Leo’s brightest hour,And deign’d to love. Nought could withstand his power.Like a fat ox, his loins were fair to view,—The pith of happiness,—he never knewWhat sorrow was. Ashamed, the nymphs now hide,And in their hiding-place they scan his sideBut not a sound escapes their lovely lips:—The while, he taps a thousand globes and sipsUntil he staggers, and falls prone to ground:Then haste the nymphs, the god they circle round!’Tis vain attempting to describe the joyEach goddess felt as they tripp’d round so coy:—One, stray’ng beyond the bound’ry they had plann’d,Most inadvertently trod on his hand;Which ’lectrified the god! then he updrew,Rais’d both his arms, and, like a trumpet, blewA sound across the purple-cluster’d plain.Altho’ he lack’d Apollo’s dulcet strain,The nymphs admired him for his manly look,For when he moved the very vineprops shook;Yea—when he spake, the clouds obey’d his voice,And stood divided that he might rejoiceBeneath the oriental mid-day sky,With Sol direct on his revolving eye.His golden goblet, he with outstretch’d arms(Which, with the god, possess’d peculiar charms),Held forth towards the sun!—when there advancedA hundred nymphs, on whom, like fire he glanced:Bold as a warrior he induced them allTo come and drink from out his flowing bowl!The nymphs, unable to resist, attendObediently to Bacchus’s command:The god surveys them as they raise the cup,And, as they drink in turn, he fills it up;—When all have drunk their loving draught, the godLifts high the goblet, and vouchsafes a nod,And bids the mistress of the fairy throngArrange the company to join in song;She, in obedience to the god’s command,Waved her white beam, and thus commenc’d the band:—The high sopranos rock the fragrant breeze,And lift their voices up by slow degreesUntil they reach the pinnacle of sound;The first great stanza done, then, most profound,The sweet contraltos follow in their course—Ascending and descending with much forceAnd regulated emphasis, and then,Uniting, send into the sunnied mainOne burst of harmony! the god then leapt,And—overwhelm’d with ecstasy—he wept.

A thousand branches stretch out far and wide,

And every branch adds to her queenly pride:

Yet she hath many sorrows to endure;

For, as the season comes from year to year,

The pruner’s blade (like as the surgeon’s knife)

Makes deep incisions to prolong her life.

Oh! how she mourns when one by one are fled

Those purple beauties which she bore and bred,

And nurtur’d in the glory of her age—

The admiration of her country’s sage:

Contrast her fan-like leaves with her choice fruit;

Trace her frail topmost tendril to its root,

When Horus[108]upon high sends down his beams,

And sheds his golden bounty forth in streams,

Beneath and round about her dwelling-place;

And say—hast thou e’er seen such ample grace,

One lovelier, or goodlier in mien,

Than she, the great terrestrial vineyard Queen?

Turn now and view those Oriental climes—

The golden fountain of the rarest wines,

To-day, resembling the to-day of yore,

Yielding their complements of luscious store;

Observe the varied hues, and fragrancy,

When fiery Leo’s[109]in th’ ascendancy.

’Twas there that Bacchus[110]strove t’obtain a glimpse

Whilst the imperial company of nymphs,

Assembled at the high command of Jove,

Were interchanging sentiments of love!—

And where Apollo,[111]with unusual strains

Inspired his instrument, and thus obtains

The fairest goddess of the mystic throng;

Who, dumb with the enchantment of his song,

Makes loving gestures that she heeds his suit;

He, in return, becomes as equally mute:

But his fair countenance pourtray’d his heart:

Then full of joy they wing’d their golden cart,

And vanish’d in th’ ethereal realms of bliss.

Now, when the other nymphs Apollo miss,

They veil’d their faces with their flowing hair,

And smote their bosoms, sighing in despair,—

Weeping lamentingly,—for each in vain

Had sought the great musician’s hand to gain:

Not as before—bewitchingly in gait—

But lovelorn now, and openly await

Each for a god or whomsoever may

Possess the courage to come there to play.

Bacchus, not oftentimes as then so shrewd,

Saw his advantage, and his aim pursued:

He, great in stature, bearded to the waist,

True to his character (refresh’d with rest),

Avail’d himself of Leo’s brightest hour,

And deign’d to love. Nought could withstand his power.

Like a fat ox, his loins were fair to view,—

The pith of happiness,—he never knew

What sorrow was. Ashamed, the nymphs now hide,

And in their hiding-place they scan his side

But not a sound escapes their lovely lips:—

The while, he taps a thousand globes and sips

Until he staggers, and falls prone to ground:

Then haste the nymphs, the god they circle round!

’Tis vain attempting to describe the joy

Each goddess felt as they tripp’d round so coy:—

One, stray’ng beyond the bound’ry they had plann’d,

Most inadvertently trod on his hand;

Which ’lectrified the god! then he updrew,

Rais’d both his arms, and, like a trumpet, blew

A sound across the purple-cluster’d plain.

Altho’ he lack’d Apollo’s dulcet strain,

The nymphs admired him for his manly look,

For when he moved the very vineprops shook;

Yea—when he spake, the clouds obey’d his voice,

And stood divided that he might rejoice

Beneath the oriental mid-day sky,

With Sol direct on his revolving eye.

His golden goblet, he with outstretch’d arms

(Which, with the god, possess’d peculiar charms),

Held forth towards the sun!—when there advanced

A hundred nymphs, on whom, like fire he glanced:

Bold as a warrior he induced them all

To come and drink from out his flowing bowl!

The nymphs, unable to resist, attend

Obediently to Bacchus’s command:

The god surveys them as they raise the cup,

And, as they drink in turn, he fills it up;—

When all have drunk their loving draught, the god

Lifts high the goblet, and vouchsafes a nod,

And bids the mistress of the fairy throng

Arrange the company to join in song;

She, in obedience to the god’s command,

Waved her white beam, and thus commenc’d the band:—

The high sopranos rock the fragrant breeze,

And lift their voices up by slow degrees

Until they reach the pinnacle of sound;

The first great stanza done, then, most profound,

The sweet contraltos follow in their course—

Ascending and descending with much force

And regulated emphasis, and then,

Uniting, send into the sunnied main

One burst of harmony! the god then leapt,

And—overwhelm’d with ecstasy—he wept.

* * * * *

O, what a sight it must have been to seeGreat Bacchus on his throne of ivory,Reviewing those fair daughters of the moon,When they struck off their soul-enraptured tune!For there he sat, crown’d with the purple vine,And by his side his goblet of red wine:At every strain which lifted up his soulThe monarch smil’d, and bow’d, inclined the bowl:Again, again, he smote his sunburnt breast,And sent Orion[112]to hunt down a beast,—To Comus[113]also to prepare a feast,—That he might entertain the goddesses,And make them creatures of much happiness.So Bacchus, rev’ling thus in his desires,With flooded brain to heav’n at once aspires.His saffron body sweated down in rills.At length, o’erpower’d, he frenzically callsTo Jupiter,[114]“O Brother, come to me,Bring down five thousand gods to help the glee!O mighty and most gentle Venus,[115]give,Give gen’rously thy aid that I may live!—Bring with thee all thy own elect of stars,Invite our friends—the brave and glorious Mars,And lordly Herschel,[116]junior of the skies;And Mercury,[117]with those sharp propitious eyes:Tell Saturn,[118]also, that I would he’d comeTo share with me the comforts of my home:Earth, goodly creature, is already hereWith bountiful provision of good cheer:I fain would Sol invite, but fear my fate,Lest the great god should think himself too great:O! what a blaze of glory there would beIf he would condescend to join the gleeBut for an hour, or even but a half:O! would not Bacchus bid the guests to quaff,Each with a goblet bumper’d up to brim?And would not Bacchus even worship him?

O, what a sight it must have been to see

Great Bacchus on his throne of ivory,

Reviewing those fair daughters of the moon,

When they struck off their soul-enraptured tune!

For there he sat, crown’d with the purple vine,

And by his side his goblet of red wine:

At every strain which lifted up his soul

The monarch smil’d, and bow’d, inclined the bowl:

Again, again, he smote his sunburnt breast,

And sent Orion[112]to hunt down a beast,—

To Comus[113]also to prepare a feast,—

That he might entertain the goddesses,

And make them creatures of much happiness.

So Bacchus, rev’ling thus in his desires,

With flooded brain to heav’n at once aspires.

His saffron body sweated down in rills.

At length, o’erpower’d, he frenzically calls

To Jupiter,[114]“O Brother, come to me,

Bring down five thousand gods to help the glee!

O mighty and most gentle Venus,[115]give,

Give gen’rously thy aid that I may live!—

Bring with thee all thy own elect of stars,

Invite our friends—the brave and glorious Mars,

And lordly Herschel,[116]junior of the skies;

And Mercury,[117]with those sharp propitious eyes:

Tell Saturn,[118]also, that I would he’d come

To share with me the comforts of my home:

Earth, goodly creature, is already here

With bountiful provision of good cheer:

I fain would Sol invite, but fear my fate,

Lest the great god should think himself too great:

O! what a blaze of glory there would be

If he would condescend to join the glee

But for an hour, or even but a half:

O! would not Bacchus bid the guests to quaff,

Each with a goblet bumper’d up to brim?

And would not Bacchus even worship him?

* * * * *

’Tis best, perhaps, that Sol should not come down,For fear my darling Venus might be stol’n:So bid my chosen-ones bring all their moons!”—He pauses, mutters, bows his head, and swoons;Falls (but unhurt) with force upon the ground,Which vibrates earth and air for miles around.

’Tis best, perhaps, that Sol should not come down,

For fear my darling Venus might be stol’n:

So bid my chosen-ones bring all their moons!”—

He pauses, mutters, bows his head, and swoons;

Falls (but unhurt) with force upon the ground,

Which vibrates earth and air for miles around.

* * * * *

Thus, senseless, for three hours low laid the god,And by his side his golden-headed rod.Then, gather’d ’round him, all the fairy hosts—Pale and affrighted, like so many ghosts—Perform a solemn requiem for his soul.Still stood the sun, and dark; but in the bowl,[119]The rosy liquid flamed a cubit high,To mourn poor Bacchus’ death: those standing byWithdrew in sorrow; one by one they fled,—For all conceiv’d their benefactor dead!Then rose a cloudling, circular in shape,Of matchless beauty, tinted like the grape;Its outer edge, fring’d round with silvery foil,Bent gently downwards, archlike, to the soil;So that an hemisphere of cloud conceal’dThe god’s huge body from the open field.To Bacchus’ prayers[120]the heavenly orbs attend,And with precision to the earth descend:They search the vineyard o’er from end to end;’Round and about they trip, with angels’ speed;Alas, they falter! then they (all agreed)Cry unto Bacchus—“Bacchus! Bacchus! where—Where art thou gone? Behold thy guests are here,—All clothed in kingly garments of the bestWe’ve come, as bidden, down to join the feast;Each with a garland delicately bloomed,And every one his instrument well tuned:Our cloud-wrought chariots in the heavens awaitTo take us back, each to his own retreat,And thou not here! Oh, cruel god, why this?Thou’st robbed us of anticipated bliss!—We heard your loud petition, and came down;But what is here? and where, where art thou gone?Fie on thee, god! Thou’rt treacherous indeed;For we have come to thee with utmost speed,Aroused, in joy, to expectation’s height,And hoped for day; but lo, ’tis all as night!”Then they confer, and hence resolved to flyBack to their mansions in the azure sky.

Thus, senseless, for three hours low laid the god,

And by his side his golden-headed rod.

Then, gather’d ’round him, all the fairy hosts—

Pale and affrighted, like so many ghosts—

Perform a solemn requiem for his soul.

Still stood the sun, and dark; but in the bowl,[119]

The rosy liquid flamed a cubit high,

To mourn poor Bacchus’ death: those standing by

Withdrew in sorrow; one by one they fled,—

For all conceiv’d their benefactor dead!

Then rose a cloudling, circular in shape,

Of matchless beauty, tinted like the grape;

Its outer edge, fring’d round with silvery foil,

Bent gently downwards, archlike, to the soil;

So that an hemisphere of cloud conceal’d

The god’s huge body from the open field.

To Bacchus’ prayers[120]the heavenly orbs attend,

And with precision to the earth descend:

They search the vineyard o’er from end to end;

’Round and about they trip, with angels’ speed;

Alas, they falter! then they (all agreed)

Cry unto Bacchus—“Bacchus! Bacchus! where—

Where art thou gone? Behold thy guests are here,—

All clothed in kingly garments of the best

We’ve come, as bidden, down to join the feast;

Each with a garland delicately bloomed,

And every one his instrument well tuned:

Our cloud-wrought chariots in the heavens await

To take us back, each to his own retreat,

And thou not here! Oh, cruel god, why this?

Thou’st robbed us of anticipated bliss!—

We heard your loud petition, and came down;

But what is here? and where, where art thou gone?

Fie on thee, god! Thou’rt treacherous indeed;

For we have come to thee with utmost speed,

Aroused, in joy, to expectation’s height,

And hoped for day; but lo, ’tis all as night!”

Then they confer, and hence resolved to fly

Back to their mansions in the azure sky.

* * * * *

The clouds dispers’d, and Bacchus starts afresh,Drinks deep the purple, which inflames his flesh;Sends his rude orisons again on high;But they heed not his pray’rs: then, with a sigh,And almost mad, he strikes his breast, and saith:“Ye gods, be damn’d.” And now, all in a breath,He uttereth a prayer to him above,Beseeching, plaintively, the mighty Jove:“Oh, well-beloved Jove! I pray thee, hearMy tale of sorrow, which to thee I bear.O Jove, acquainted with my nature best,Thou know’st, alone, the cravings of my breast;Fann’d by the nymphs’ most inspirating strain,I sought the bowl, and fired my foolish brain:I cried aloud to thee, as Jupiter,But lacked, I ween, a right interpreter:To Venus and to Mars I rais’d my voice,For they were three respectively my choice;To Georgian-Herschel, and to Mercury;To Saturn, but ’twas vain. ’Twas vanity,I’ll own; yet was it not, O Jove, most cruel—Now I am old—to treat me as a fool?”So he continued venting loud his pray’r:Deserted and distracted to despair,He tried to lift the goblet, but he fail’d;His strength had fled, he found himself assail’dAnd at the gate of hell!—still struggling hard,He ope’d his mouth, but uttered not a word:He mock’d the gods with his fast fleeting breath;Gave up the ghost: thus met eternal death!

The clouds dispers’d, and Bacchus starts afresh,

Drinks deep the purple, which inflames his flesh;

Sends his rude orisons again on high;

But they heed not his pray’rs: then, with a sigh,

And almost mad, he strikes his breast, and saith:

“Ye gods, be damn’d.” And now, all in a breath,

He uttereth a prayer to him above,

Beseeching, plaintively, the mighty Jove:

“Oh, well-beloved Jove! I pray thee, hear

My tale of sorrow, which to thee I bear.

O Jove, acquainted with my nature best,

Thou know’st, alone, the cravings of my breast;

Fann’d by the nymphs’ most inspirating strain,

I sought the bowl, and fired my foolish brain:

I cried aloud to thee, as Jupiter,

But lacked, I ween, a right interpreter:

To Venus and to Mars I rais’d my voice,

For they were three respectively my choice;

To Georgian-Herschel, and to Mercury;

To Saturn, but ’twas vain. ’Twas vanity,

I’ll own; yet was it not, O Jove, most cruel—

Now I am old—to treat me as a fool?”

So he continued venting loud his pray’r:

Deserted and distracted to despair,

He tried to lift the goblet, but he fail’d;

His strength had fled, he found himself assail’d

And at the gate of hell!—still struggling hard,

He ope’d his mouth, but uttered not a word:

He mock’d the gods with his fast fleeting breath;

Gave up the ghost: thus met eternal death!

* * * * *

Three days, or more, the god lay prostrate, bare,With naught of covering save his ruffled hair,(And not a creature chancèd to come near,)Stretched to his full across his bed of leaves;His hands were clench’d, as firm as iron greaves;And there he laid; when Daphne,[121]passing by,Caught the reflection of his glaring eye(For Bacchus died not, as most mortal men,With eyes fast shut, but open to the sun),And, like a good Samaritan, went o’er:Rememb’ring well the visage which he bore,She exclaim’d aloud to her great lord[122]of heaven—(As she, poor nymph, was most severely smitten)—Crying, “Bassareus[123]lies breathless on the field!No wounds to show he has been gored or steel’d;And now, aghast, his eyes still move around,His lips are quivering, and I hear a soundLike that of Rhadamanthus (Judge of hell),But what his converse is I cannot tell.”Her lord came down, most sorrowful in look,Conn’d the dead body, and again betookHis brazen chariot in all haste, and rodeDown to the regions of the infernal god:There was rejoicing to a great extent:—A thousand fires lit up the firmament;A myriad spirits danced around the flames,Each calling Bacchus by a thousand names,And each, like Argus, had a hundred eyes,Which direfully glared across the den of lies;Their heads were horn’d, and each horn bore a lamp,Mark’d with the great immortal Pluto’s stamp;(Pluto[124]himself, being ninety leagues away,Was unacquainted with this revelry—Till Vulcan[125]forged a bolt with wings, and sentIt in a whirlwind unto Pluto’s tent;Therein it stood and wrote upon the wallThe brief particulars of the carnival!This mighty god,[126]astounded to the heart,Made hasty preparations to depart;Sent forth his voice, then ’roused his gloomy host,And travell’d ’round by the south-western coast.)And each one held two red-hot iron beams;Their breath ascended in sulphurous streams:They foamed and snorted, like hard-ridden horse,And fled across the grim and deathy courseWith comets’ speed; then stamp’d with awful forceTheir ponderous forms upon th’ upheaving ground,Which sent afar a hideous crackling sound:The foam ran down their breasts like molten flame,—Too dreadful to describe by any name;Their mouths, when open, were like rocky caves—Down their vast throats the Styx[127]rush’d in great waves,And when they spat, a stench obnoxious ’rose—Offensive to the most inurèd nose.Around their waists were slung huge buffalo horns(And farther down hung girdles of black thorns),With which they went three times a day for drink,And stood around that dread Avernus’ brink,[128]Without attempt from the foul task to shrink;Then, at a word, into the lake they went,Whose waters were of dreadful temperament:They plunged therein as horses gored to death,And sent forth pois’nous vapours with their breath.Three times a day the ghastly livid lakeTurn’d into blood, with which their thirst they’d slake:When brass-hair’d Vulcan struck his mighty gong,Erect they stood, and join’d in woful song,Another beat, they stretch’d their glaring eyes,And sent a shriek into the red-wrought skies;[129](Conceive a thousand organs thundering forth—From every point the compass to the north—The tone of every pipe encompassèdWithin their frames, then only ’t can be saidWhat was the shout those spirits sent abroadAt the command of this volcanic lord!)Once more he beat, they rais’d a dismal moan,—Sustain’d their voices till a day was gone:For whilst great Vulcan held his beam on high,They durst not breathe, nor even wink an eye.(Oh! what a shocking, melancholy fate,To be the vassals of such low estate:Dogs upon earth are angels in a heaven,Compared to those poor wretches who are drivenFrom south to north, from east to west, with wingsLike flaming firebrands, and whose mouths have stingsAs deadly in their touch as adders are:Their peace is worse than earth’s most direful war!)The wretches would have slept, but lo! a glareOf yellow lurid light shot through the air;And with it came a blast of mingled sounds,Like as the yellings of as many hounds:This shook the spirits’ nerves; they trembled, forThey saw and knew the cloud advancing boreGreat Pluto back to his imperial throne.In but a twinkling of an eye were flownA swarm of wingèd fiends with gold engraven plates,To summon forth th’ infernal potentatesTo meet their lord and emperor of hell.Then they return’d, their messages to tell.

Three days, or more, the god lay prostrate, bare,

With naught of covering save his ruffled hair,

(And not a creature chancèd to come near,)

Stretched to his full across his bed of leaves;

His hands were clench’d, as firm as iron greaves;

And there he laid; when Daphne,[121]passing by,

Caught the reflection of his glaring eye

(For Bacchus died not, as most mortal men,

With eyes fast shut, but open to the sun),

And, like a good Samaritan, went o’er:

Rememb’ring well the visage which he bore,

She exclaim’d aloud to her great lord[122]of heaven—

(As she, poor nymph, was most severely smitten)—

Crying, “Bassareus[123]lies breathless on the field!

No wounds to show he has been gored or steel’d;

And now, aghast, his eyes still move around,

His lips are quivering, and I hear a sound

Like that of Rhadamanthus (Judge of hell),

But what his converse is I cannot tell.”

Her lord came down, most sorrowful in look,

Conn’d the dead body, and again betook

His brazen chariot in all haste, and rode

Down to the regions of the infernal god:

There was rejoicing to a great extent:—

A thousand fires lit up the firmament;

A myriad spirits danced around the flames,

Each calling Bacchus by a thousand names,

And each, like Argus, had a hundred eyes,

Which direfully glared across the den of lies;

Their heads were horn’d, and each horn bore a lamp,

Mark’d with the great immortal Pluto’s stamp;

(Pluto[124]himself, being ninety leagues away,

Was unacquainted with this revelry—

Till Vulcan[125]forged a bolt with wings, and sent

It in a whirlwind unto Pluto’s tent;

Therein it stood and wrote upon the wall

The brief particulars of the carnival!

This mighty god,[126]astounded to the heart,

Made hasty preparations to depart;

Sent forth his voice, then ’roused his gloomy host,

And travell’d ’round by the south-western coast.)

And each one held two red-hot iron beams;

Their breath ascended in sulphurous streams:

They foamed and snorted, like hard-ridden horse,

And fled across the grim and deathy course

With comets’ speed; then stamp’d with awful force

Their ponderous forms upon th’ upheaving ground,

Which sent afar a hideous crackling sound:

The foam ran down their breasts like molten flame,—

Too dreadful to describe by any name;

Their mouths, when open, were like rocky caves—

Down their vast throats the Styx[127]rush’d in great waves,

And when they spat, a stench obnoxious ’rose—

Offensive to the most inurèd nose.

Around their waists were slung huge buffalo horns

(And farther down hung girdles of black thorns),

With which they went three times a day for drink,

And stood around that dread Avernus’ brink,[128]

Without attempt from the foul task to shrink;

Then, at a word, into the lake they went,

Whose waters were of dreadful temperament:

They plunged therein as horses gored to death,

And sent forth pois’nous vapours with their breath.

Three times a day the ghastly livid lake

Turn’d into blood, with which their thirst they’d slake:

When brass-hair’d Vulcan struck his mighty gong,

Erect they stood, and join’d in woful song,

Another beat, they stretch’d their glaring eyes,

And sent a shriek into the red-wrought skies;[129]

(Conceive a thousand organs thundering forth—

From every point the compass to the north—

The tone of every pipe encompassèd

Within their frames, then only ’t can be said

What was the shout those spirits sent abroad

At the command of this volcanic lord!)

Once more he beat, they rais’d a dismal moan,—

Sustain’d their voices till a day was gone:

For whilst great Vulcan held his beam on high,

They durst not breathe, nor even wink an eye.

(Oh! what a shocking, melancholy fate,

To be the vassals of such low estate:

Dogs upon earth are angels in a heaven,

Compared to those poor wretches who are driven

From south to north, from east to west, with wings

Like flaming firebrands, and whose mouths have stings

As deadly in their touch as adders are:

Their peace is worse than earth’s most direful war!)

The wretches would have slept, but lo! a glare

Of yellow lurid light shot through the air;

And with it came a blast of mingled sounds,

Like as the yellings of as many hounds:

This shook the spirits’ nerves; they trembled, for

They saw and knew the cloud advancing bore

Great Pluto back to his imperial throne.

In but a twinkling of an eye were flown

A swarm of wingèd fiends with gold engraven plates,

To summon forth th’ infernal potentates

To meet their lord and emperor of hell.

Then they return’d, their messages to tell.

* * * * *

Forth came the mighty host, great in their speed(Their fiery horses panting for the deed):And all sent on swift-wingèd, prong-like darts,Which bore the numbers of their brazen carts:’Twould take a day to count the numbers o’er:At length they advance with a continuous roar,Dividing as they sped the sulph’ral air,Midst fetid vapours like the fumes of war.Now as they approach with a most deaf’ning noise—Sixteen abreast arranged, to counterpoiseThe basement of the cloud on which they rode—The mighty host beheld, beheld their god!

Forth came the mighty host, great in their speed

(Their fiery horses panting for the deed):

And all sent on swift-wingèd, prong-like darts,

Which bore the numbers of their brazen carts:

’Twould take a day to count the numbers o’er:

At length they advance with a continuous roar,

Dividing as they sped the sulph’ral air,

Midst fetid vapours like the fumes of war.

Now as they approach with a most deaf’ning noise—

Sixteen abreast arranged, to counterpoise

The basement of the cloud on which they rode—

The mighty host beheld, beheld their god!

* * * * *

Meanwhile—the mighty Vulcan (at his works),And all his host were welding monster dirksOf brass and steel; and in each point, an eyeWas fixèd to conduct it through the sky,Where it was plann’d that at a given wordEach instrument of death should fly abroadAt equal distances, directed straightTo meet the foe who dare oppose the fête.In warlike attitude th’ inferior fiendsStood all abreast, and facing the west winds,(Each held a dirk four cubits in the air,And on their breast were brazen shields of war,)—Full fifteen rows, each row a yard advanc’d:And in the rear ten thousand horses pranc’d,All cap’rison’d with choicest workmanship:Each rider held a silver-threaded whip,Of ponderous weight, which rested on his hipOn his right side; whilst on the left were hungA massive sabre and a silver gong.Behind them were arranged each curricle,To form a background to the spectacle:According to their numbers in rotation,And to the high or low degree of stationOf those great potentates, so did they stand—Prim in their aspect and exceeding’ grand.The chariots’ sides, inlaid with burnish’d gold,Reflected all surrounding them two-fold;On every roof there ’rose a tow’ring rod,Which bore the banner of each minor god;The charioteers wore helmets, wrought of brass;And all their faces shone like silver’d glass.From north to south three leagues of ground were dark,Through this great cloud incumbent o’er the park;And not a voice was heard, not e’en a breath,So strict was the command. (A second deathWas the sad fate for those who disobey’dTh’ injunctions and the laws therein decreed.)All, conscious that their lord was on his wayBack to his seat of fame and royalty,Now look’d direct towards the bloodshot heav’n,Through which the god of misery was driv’n;The lurid light increased its sickly tint,And shed its glare about the continent:Near to the zenith of the mystic mainAppear’d the shadow of th’ advancing train,—Small as a hand, but rapid in its growth,—As on they came upon the yellow path:Great as a mountain the dire shade had grown,When suddenly a dreadful blast was blownBy fifty heralds in the foremost cloud;They blew again, but fifty times more loud,So that the atmosphere of hell did quake,And caus’d a hissing like a python snake.Then came the thunder of the chariot wheels,Like cannons roaring on a thousand hills.A thousand chariots did the train compose:And then the tramping of the horse arose,Fell on the ears with dire and dreadful woeOf those who listen’d with dismay: when lo!The heavens open’d! * * * Vulcan struck his gong,And all the multitude burst forth in song:Which song appall’d th’ ambassador of earth,[130]—The great musician, minstrel, bard of mirth,—Who now was there with his attendant godsArray’d in splendour, holding silver rods,To greet the Emperor, as the monarch cameDown from the clouds in crimson-colour’d flame.

Meanwhile—the mighty Vulcan (at his works),

And all his host were welding monster dirks

Of brass and steel; and in each point, an eye

Was fixèd to conduct it through the sky,

Where it was plann’d that at a given word

Each instrument of death should fly abroad

At equal distances, directed straight

To meet the foe who dare oppose the fête.

In warlike attitude th’ inferior fiends

Stood all abreast, and facing the west winds,

(Each held a dirk four cubits in the air,

And on their breast were brazen shields of war,)—

Full fifteen rows, each row a yard advanc’d:

And in the rear ten thousand horses pranc’d,

All cap’rison’d with choicest workmanship:

Each rider held a silver-threaded whip,

Of ponderous weight, which rested on his hip

On his right side; whilst on the left were hung

A massive sabre and a silver gong.

Behind them were arranged each curricle,

To form a background to the spectacle:

According to their numbers in rotation,

And to the high or low degree of station

Of those great potentates, so did they stand—

Prim in their aspect and exceeding’ grand.

The chariots’ sides, inlaid with burnish’d gold,

Reflected all surrounding them two-fold;

On every roof there ’rose a tow’ring rod,

Which bore the banner of each minor god;

The charioteers wore helmets, wrought of brass;

And all their faces shone like silver’d glass.

From north to south three leagues of ground were dark,

Through this great cloud incumbent o’er the park;

And not a voice was heard, not e’en a breath,

So strict was the command. (A second death

Was the sad fate for those who disobey’d

Th’ injunctions and the laws therein decreed.)

All, conscious that their lord was on his way

Back to his seat of fame and royalty,

Now look’d direct towards the bloodshot heav’n,

Through which the god of misery was driv’n;

The lurid light increased its sickly tint,

And shed its glare about the continent:

Near to the zenith of the mystic main

Appear’d the shadow of th’ advancing train,—

Small as a hand, but rapid in its growth,—

As on they came upon the yellow path:

Great as a mountain the dire shade had grown,

When suddenly a dreadful blast was blown

By fifty heralds in the foremost cloud;

They blew again, but fifty times more loud,

So that the atmosphere of hell did quake,

And caus’d a hissing like a python snake.

Then came the thunder of the chariot wheels,

Like cannons roaring on a thousand hills.

A thousand chariots did the train compose:

And then the tramping of the horse arose,

Fell on the ears with dire and dreadful woe

Of those who listen’d with dismay: when lo!

The heavens open’d! * * * Vulcan struck his gong,

And all the multitude burst forth in song:

Which song appall’d th’ ambassador of earth,[130]—

The great musician, minstrel, bard of mirth,—

Who now was there with his attendant gods

Array’d in splendour, holding silver rods,

To greet the Emperor, as the monarch came

Down from the clouds in crimson-colour’d flame.

* * * * *

Apollo, garmented in robes of gold,—His stature like a giant to behold,—With voice unmatch’d in compass and in tone,Pour’d forth his song, which vibrated the zone:Its text was this—“Hail, Pluto, mighty king;”—Then all Apollo’s minstrels ’round him sing“Hail, Pluto, mighty King!” re-echoingThe song of triumph to the utmost boundsOf the dread region, in concordant sounds.The multitude manœuvred, gather’d in,And form’d an ambient circle; where, within,His Majesty appointed his descent.The vassals, marshall’d, to the rearward went.So that the inner ring contain’d the great,—Such as th’ renownèd Minos, magistrate,Androgeüs, his son; then, great in name,Stood Rhadamanthus, ’nother judge of fame;Æacus, Acheron; and poor Protheus, who,Vex’d with his form, into great Etna flew;And by his side Prometheus, martyr’d god,Who form’d and fired with life a moulded clod:There, terrible in mien, stood Mulciber,[131]—He, on his breast, a group of medals bore—Marks of distinction for those mighty thingsWhich he had wrought through ages past for kings;Then his son Cacus, junior god of fire;And next, perfidious Sisyphus, the liar;Then Erebus, son of the Invisible;[132]And grim old Charon, ferryman of hell.At equal distances those magnates stoodAbout this circle of great magnitudeMuch in themselves, but all subordinateTo Pluto; who, now in great pomp and state,Was in their midst: there He (awaiting himThe harbinger of joy—Earth’s seraphim)With pow’rful speech and accent, call’d aloud—“Come hither, O Apollo!” Forth went the god,When there uprose a nevious curling cloud,Great in circumference, and six fathoms up,Bulg’d at its sides, in form like as a cup,Less at its base; and round about the sameThere spread an horizontal ardent flame,So great the heat, that not a soul could dareApproach within ten fathoms of the flare:And on the rim of this most mystic vase—One fathom high—a bluish flame arose,Which shed an incense o’er the inner part;And warders stood thereon, each with a dart,Fierce in their look and ghastly in their mien:And farther down a girdle, red and green,Of furious fire, revolved around the shroudWhich hid the gods[133]from the obsequious crowd:And where, within, the arbitrators stay’dFor one whole hour, intent upon the dead—As to the burial of the god, and howHe should be welcom’d in the realms below;—For ’twas Apollo’s wish that he should beReceiv’d with pomp into eternity,And urged the matter to the full extent,Till Pluto graciously gave his consent.

Apollo, garmented in robes of gold,—

His stature like a giant to behold,—

With voice unmatch’d in compass and in tone,

Pour’d forth his song, which vibrated the zone:

Its text was this—“Hail, Pluto, mighty king;”—

Then all Apollo’s minstrels ’round him sing

“Hail, Pluto, mighty King!” re-echoing

The song of triumph to the utmost bounds

Of the dread region, in concordant sounds.

The multitude manœuvred, gather’d in,

And form’d an ambient circle; where, within,

His Majesty appointed his descent.

The vassals, marshall’d, to the rearward went.

So that the inner ring contain’d the great,—

Such as th’ renownèd Minos, magistrate,

Androgeüs, his son; then, great in name,

Stood Rhadamanthus, ’nother judge of fame;

Æacus, Acheron; and poor Protheus, who,

Vex’d with his form, into great Etna flew;

And by his side Prometheus, martyr’d god,

Who form’d and fired with life a moulded clod:

There, terrible in mien, stood Mulciber,[131]—

He, on his breast, a group of medals bore—

Marks of distinction for those mighty things

Which he had wrought through ages past for kings;

Then his son Cacus, junior god of fire;

And next, perfidious Sisyphus, the liar;

Then Erebus, son of the Invisible;[132]

And grim old Charon, ferryman of hell.

At equal distances those magnates stood

About this circle of great magnitude

Much in themselves, but all subordinate

To Pluto; who, now in great pomp and state,

Was in their midst: there He (awaiting him

The harbinger of joy—Earth’s seraphim)

With pow’rful speech and accent, call’d aloud—

“Come hither, O Apollo!” Forth went the god,

When there uprose a nevious curling cloud,

Great in circumference, and six fathoms up,

Bulg’d at its sides, in form like as a cup,

Less at its base; and round about the same

There spread an horizontal ardent flame,

So great the heat, that not a soul could dare

Approach within ten fathoms of the flare:

And on the rim of this most mystic vase—

One fathom high—a bluish flame arose,

Which shed an incense o’er the inner part;

And warders stood thereon, each with a dart,

Fierce in their look and ghastly in their mien:

And farther down a girdle, red and green,

Of furious fire, revolved around the shroud

Which hid the gods[133]from the obsequious crowd:

And where, within, the arbitrators stay’d

For one whole hour, intent upon the dead—

As to the burial of the god, and how

He should be welcom’d in the realms below;—

For ’twas Apollo’s wish that he should be

Receiv’d with pomp into eternity,

And urged the matter to the full extent,

Till Pluto graciously gave his consent.

* * * * *

The god,[134]now pleas’d, sent up a yellow shaft—Which Boreas,[135]mighty wind, away did waftAcross th’ unfathomable red abyss,—And which in transit caused a fearful hiss.When Vulcan, seeing, alone, the signal bound,Re-beat his gong,—the vassal host around,Quick as a flash of lightning, then upheldTheir polish’d dirks on high, and then re-yell’d!The mighty magistrates, obeying the sound,Inclined their heads, and knelt upon the ground:The while, Apollo (and his mirthful throng)Came forth, repeating the triumphant song—“Hail, Pluto, mighty King!”—around him slungHis instrument of joy,—his eye relitWith his accustom’d dignity and wit.Immediately, the cloud collaps’d and fled,And he, the lord of death, appeared glad:He stood erect, and, in the act of pray’r,Pour’d forth his orisons into the air:His pow’rful speech made all the host afraid,And instantly his mandates were obey’d:He spoke but once—his chariots were at hand,And round about him his attendants stand,—Each in apparel dazzling to the sight,—Their wings outspread in readiness for flight.Then Pluto look’d about the torrid space,Stepp’d in his chariot with a kingly grace,And rais’d his beam, full half a ton in weight:When (pointing to his own imperial seat,Which stood upon a mount encompass’d roundBy awful chasms and unstable ground,)He gave the word—the trumpets shook the vastWith the outpourings of their mighty blast!

The god,[134]now pleas’d, sent up a yellow shaft—

Which Boreas,[135]mighty wind, away did waft

Across th’ unfathomable red abyss,—

And which in transit caused a fearful hiss.

When Vulcan, seeing, alone, the signal bound,

Re-beat his gong,—the vassal host around,

Quick as a flash of lightning, then upheld

Their polish’d dirks on high, and then re-yell’d!

The mighty magistrates, obeying the sound,

Inclined their heads, and knelt upon the ground:

The while, Apollo (and his mirthful throng)

Came forth, repeating the triumphant song—

“Hail, Pluto, mighty King!”—around him slung

His instrument of joy,—his eye relit

With his accustom’d dignity and wit.

Immediately, the cloud collaps’d and fled,

And he, the lord of death, appeared glad:

He stood erect, and, in the act of pray’r,

Pour’d forth his orisons into the air:

His pow’rful speech made all the host afraid,

And instantly his mandates were obey’d:

He spoke but once—his chariots were at hand,

And round about him his attendants stand,—

Each in apparel dazzling to the sight,—

Their wings outspread in readiness for flight.

Then Pluto look’d about the torrid space,

Stepp’d in his chariot with a kingly grace,

And rais’d his beam, full half a ton in weight:

When (pointing to his own imperial seat,

Which stood upon a mount encompass’d round

By awful chasms and unstable ground,)

He gave the word—the trumpets shook the vast

With the outpourings of their mighty blast!

* * * * *

The clouds divided, and the train pass’d through;And now the multitude shout out anew—“Hail, Pluto, mighty King!” great was the noise.The quivering earth dissolved into the skies.Above, below, around, was void and darkFor one whole day, until a vivid sparkOf crimson flame—in form a serpent’s sting—Shot forth towards the mountain of the king,And struck the base of the imperial throne,Which shook with awe; and all the earth did groan;A flash of light lit up the horrid zone;The atmosphere ’came full of monster frogs,Of winged porcupines, and howling dogs.

The clouds divided, and the train pass’d through;

And now the multitude shout out anew—

“Hail, Pluto, mighty King!” great was the noise.

The quivering earth dissolved into the skies.

Above, below, around, was void and dark

For one whole day, until a vivid spark

Of crimson flame—in form a serpent’s sting—

Shot forth towards the mountain of the king,

And struck the base of the imperial throne,

Which shook with awe; and all the earth did groan;

A flash of light lit up the horrid zone;

The atmosphere ’came full of monster frogs,

Of winged porcupines, and howling dogs.

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