Sir Elvar is the fairest knightThat ever lured a lady's glance;Sir Elvar is the wealthiest lordThat sits at good King Arthur's board;The bravest in the joust or fight,The lightest in the dance.And never love, methinks, so blestAs his, this weary world has known;For, every night before his eyes,The charms that ne'er can fade arise—A star unseen by all the rest—A Life for him alone.And yet Sir Elvar is not blest—He walks apart with brows of gloom—"The meanest knight in Arthur's hallHis lady-love may tell to all;He shows the flower that glads his breast—His pride to boast its bloom!"And I who clasp the fairest formThat e'er to man's embrace was given,Must hide the gift as if in shame!What boots a prize we dare not name?The sun must shine if it would warm—A cloud is all my heaven!"Much proud Genevra[C]marvell'd, howA knight so fair should seem so cold;What if a love for hope too high,Has chain'd the lip and awed the eye?A second joust—and surely nowThe secret shall be told.For,there, alone shall ride the braveWhose glory dwells in Beauty's fame;Each, for his lady's honour, arms—His lance the test of rival charms.Joy unto him whom Beauty gaveThe right to gild her name!Sir Lancelot burns to win the prize—First in the Lists his shield is seen;A sunflower for device he took—"Where'er thou shinest turns my look."So as he paced the Lists, his eyesStill sought the Sun—his Queen!"And why, Sir Elvar, loiterest thou?—Lives there no fair thy lance to claim?"No answer Elvar made the King;Sullen he stood without the ring."Forwards!" An armèd whirlwind nowOn horse and horseman came!And down goes princely Caradoc—Down Tristan and stout Agrafrayn,—Unscath'd, alone, amidst the field,Great Lancelot bears his victor-shield;The sunflower bright'ning through the shock,And through that iron rain."Sound, trumpets—sound!—to South and North!I, Lancelot of the Lake, proclaim,That never sun and never air,Or shone or breathed on form so fairAs hers—thrice, trumpets, sound it forth!—Our Arthur's royal dame!"And South and North, and West and East,Upon the thunder-blast it flies!Still on his steed sits Lancelot,And even echo answers not;Till, as the stormy challenge ceased,A voice was heard—"He lies!"All turn'd their mute, astonish'd gaze,To where the daring answer came,And lo! Sir Elvar's haughty crest!—Fierce on the knight the gazers press'd;—Their wands the sacred Heralds raise,—Genevra weeps for shame."Sir Knight," King Arthur smiling said(In smiles a king should wrath disguise),"Know'st thou, in truth, a dame so fair,Our Queen may not with her compare?Genevra, weep, and hide thy head—Sir Lancelot, yield the prize.""O, grace, my liege, for surely eachThe dame he serves should peerless hold,To loyal eye and faithful breastThe loved one is the loveliest."The King replied, "Not crafty speech—Bold deeds—excuse the bold!"So name thy fair, defend her right!A list!—Ho Lancelot, guard thy shield.Her name?"—Sir Elvar's visage fell:"A vow forbids the name to tell.""Now out upon the recreant KnightWho courts yet shuns the field!"Foul shame, were royal name disgracedBy some light leman's taunting smile!Whoe'er—so run the tourney's laws—Would break a lance in Beauty's cause,Must name the Highborn and the Chaste—The nameless are the vile."Sir Elvar glanced, where, stern and high,The scornful champion rein'd his steed;Where o'er the Lists the seats were raised,And jealous dames disdainful gazed,He glanced, nor caught one gentle eye—Courts grow not friends at need:"King! I have said, and keep my vow.""Thy vow! I pledge thee mine in turn,Ere the third sun shall sink,—or bringA fair outshining yonder ring,Or find mine oath as thine is nowInflexible and stern."Thy sword, unmeet to serve the right,—Thy spurs, unfit for churls to wear,Torn from thee;—through the crowd, which heardOur Lady weep at vassal's word,Shall hiss the hoot,—'Behold the knight,Whose lips belie the fair!'"Three days I give; nor think to flyThy doom; for on the rider's steed,Though to the farthest earth he ride,—Disgrace once mounted, clings beside;And Mockery's barbèd shafts defyHer victim's swiftest speed."Far to the forest's stillest shade,Sir Elvar took his lonely way:Beneath the oak, whose gentle frownStill dimm'd the noon, he laid him down,And saw the Fount that through the gladeSang sparkling up to day.Alas, in vain his heart address'd,With sighs, with prayers, his elfin bride;—What though the vow conceal'd the name,Did not the boast the charms proclaim?The spell has vanish'd from his breast,The fairy from his side.Oh, not for vulgar homage made,The holier beauty form'd for one;It asks no wreath the arm can win;Its lists—its world—the heart within;All love, if sacred, haunts the shade—The star shrinks from the sun!Three days the wand'rer roved in vain;Uprose the fatal dawn at last!The Lists are set, the galleries raised,And, scorn'd by all the eyes that gazed,Alone he fronts the crowd again,And hears the sentence pass'd.Now, as, amidst the hooting scorn,Rude hands the hard command fulfil,While rings the challenge—"Sun and airNe'er shone, ne'er breathed, on form so fairAs Arthur's Queen,"—a single hornCame from the forest hill.A note so distant and so lone,And yet so sweet,—it thrill'd along,It hush'd the Champion on his steed,Startled the rude hands from their deed,Charm'd the stern Arthur on his throne,And still'd the shouting throng.To North, to South, to East, and West,They turn'd their eyes; and o'er the plain,On palfrey white, a Ladye rode;As woven light her mantle glow'd.Two lovely shapes, in azure dress'd,Walk'd first, and led the rein.The crowd gave way, as onward boreThat vision from the Land of Dreams;Veil'd was the gentle rider's face,But not the two her path that grace.How dim beside the charms they woreAll human beauty seems!So to the throne the pageant came,And thus the Fairy to the King:"Not unto thee for ever dear,By minstrel's song, to knighthood's earBeseems the wrath that wrongs the vow,Which hallows ev'n a name."Bloom there no flowers more sweet by night?Come, Queen, before the judgment throne;Behold Sir Elvar's nameless bride!Now, Queen, his doom thyself decide."She raised her veil,—and all her lightOf beauty round them shone!The bloom, the eyes, the locks, the smile,That never earth nor time could dim;—Day grew more bright, and air more clear,As Heaven itself were brought more near.—And oh!hisjoy, who felt, the while,That light but glow'd for him!"My steed, my lance, vain Champion, nowTo arms: and Heaven defend the right!"—Here spake the Queen, "The strife is past,"And in the Lists her glove she cast,"And I myself will crown thy brow,Thou love-defended Knight!"He comes to claim the garland crown;The changeful thousands shout his name;And faithless beauty round him smiled,How cold, beside the Forest's Child,Who ask'd not love to bring renown,And clung to love in shame!He bears the prize to those dear feet:"Not mine the guerdon! oh, not mine!"Sadly the fated Fairy hears,And smiles through unreproachful tears;"Nay, keep the flowers, and be they sweetWhen I—no more am thine!"She lower'd the veil, she turn'd the rein,And ere his lips replied, was gone.As on she went her charmèd way,No mortal dared the steps to stay:And when she vanish'd from the plainAll space seem'd left alone!Oh, woe! that fairy shape no moreShall bless thy love nor rouse thy pride!He seeks the wood, he gains the spot—The Tree is there, the Fountain not;—Dried up:—its mirthful play is o'er.Ah, where the Fairy Bride?Alas, with fairies as with men,Who love are victims from the birth!A fearful doom the fairy shrouds,If once unveil'd by day to crowds.The Fountain vanish'd from the glen,The Fairy from the earth!
Sir Elvar is the fairest knightThat ever lured a lady's glance;Sir Elvar is the wealthiest lordThat sits at good King Arthur's board;The bravest in the joust or fight,The lightest in the dance.
And never love, methinks, so blestAs his, this weary world has known;For, every night before his eyes,The charms that ne'er can fade arise—A star unseen by all the rest—A Life for him alone.
And yet Sir Elvar is not blest—He walks apart with brows of gloom—"The meanest knight in Arthur's hallHis lady-love may tell to all;He shows the flower that glads his breast—His pride to boast its bloom!
"And I who clasp the fairest formThat e'er to man's embrace was given,Must hide the gift as if in shame!What boots a prize we dare not name?The sun must shine if it would warm—A cloud is all my heaven!"
Much proud Genevra[C]marvell'd, howA knight so fair should seem so cold;What if a love for hope too high,Has chain'd the lip and awed the eye?A second joust—and surely nowThe secret shall be told.
For,there, alone shall ride the braveWhose glory dwells in Beauty's fame;Each, for his lady's honour, arms—His lance the test of rival charms.Joy unto him whom Beauty gaveThe right to gild her name!
Sir Lancelot burns to win the prize—First in the Lists his shield is seen;A sunflower for device he took—"Where'er thou shinest turns my look."So as he paced the Lists, his eyesStill sought the Sun—his Queen!
"And why, Sir Elvar, loiterest thou?—Lives there no fair thy lance to claim?"No answer Elvar made the King;Sullen he stood without the ring."Forwards!" An armèd whirlwind nowOn horse and horseman came!
And down goes princely Caradoc—Down Tristan and stout Agrafrayn,—Unscath'd, alone, amidst the field,Great Lancelot bears his victor-shield;The sunflower bright'ning through the shock,And through that iron rain.
"Sound, trumpets—sound!—to South and North!I, Lancelot of the Lake, proclaim,That never sun and never air,Or shone or breathed on form so fairAs hers—thrice, trumpets, sound it forth!—Our Arthur's royal dame!"
And South and North, and West and East,Upon the thunder-blast it flies!Still on his steed sits Lancelot,And even echo answers not;Till, as the stormy challenge ceased,A voice was heard—"He lies!"
All turn'd their mute, astonish'd gaze,To where the daring answer came,And lo! Sir Elvar's haughty crest!—Fierce on the knight the gazers press'd;—Their wands the sacred Heralds raise,—Genevra weeps for shame.
"Sir Knight," King Arthur smiling said(In smiles a king should wrath disguise),"Know'st thou, in truth, a dame so fair,Our Queen may not with her compare?Genevra, weep, and hide thy head—Sir Lancelot, yield the prize."
"O, grace, my liege, for surely eachThe dame he serves should peerless hold,To loyal eye and faithful breastThe loved one is the loveliest."The King replied, "Not crafty speech—Bold deeds—excuse the bold!
"So name thy fair, defend her right!A list!—Ho Lancelot, guard thy shield.Her name?"—Sir Elvar's visage fell:"A vow forbids the name to tell.""Now out upon the recreant KnightWho courts yet shuns the field!
"Foul shame, were royal name disgracedBy some light leman's taunting smile!Whoe'er—so run the tourney's laws—Would break a lance in Beauty's cause,Must name the Highborn and the Chaste—The nameless are the vile."
Sir Elvar glanced, where, stern and high,The scornful champion rein'd his steed;Where o'er the Lists the seats were raised,And jealous dames disdainful gazed,He glanced, nor caught one gentle eye—Courts grow not friends at need:
"King! I have said, and keep my vow.""Thy vow! I pledge thee mine in turn,Ere the third sun shall sink,—or bringA fair outshining yonder ring,Or find mine oath as thine is nowInflexible and stern.
"Thy sword, unmeet to serve the right,—Thy spurs, unfit for churls to wear,Torn from thee;—through the crowd, which heardOur Lady weep at vassal's word,Shall hiss the hoot,—'Behold the knight,Whose lips belie the fair!'
"Three days I give; nor think to flyThy doom; for on the rider's steed,Though to the farthest earth he ride,—Disgrace once mounted, clings beside;And Mockery's barbèd shafts defyHer victim's swiftest speed."
Far to the forest's stillest shade,Sir Elvar took his lonely way:Beneath the oak, whose gentle frownStill dimm'd the noon, he laid him down,And saw the Fount that through the gladeSang sparkling up to day.
Alas, in vain his heart address'd,With sighs, with prayers, his elfin bride;—What though the vow conceal'd the name,Did not the boast the charms proclaim?The spell has vanish'd from his breast,The fairy from his side.
Oh, not for vulgar homage made,The holier beauty form'd for one;It asks no wreath the arm can win;Its lists—its world—the heart within;All love, if sacred, haunts the shade—The star shrinks from the sun!
Three days the wand'rer roved in vain;Uprose the fatal dawn at last!The Lists are set, the galleries raised,And, scorn'd by all the eyes that gazed,Alone he fronts the crowd again,And hears the sentence pass'd.
Now, as, amidst the hooting scorn,Rude hands the hard command fulfil,While rings the challenge—"Sun and airNe'er shone, ne'er breathed, on form so fairAs Arthur's Queen,"—a single hornCame from the forest hill.
A note so distant and so lone,And yet so sweet,—it thrill'd along,It hush'd the Champion on his steed,Startled the rude hands from their deed,Charm'd the stern Arthur on his throne,And still'd the shouting throng.
To North, to South, to East, and West,They turn'd their eyes; and o'er the plain,On palfrey white, a Ladye rode;As woven light her mantle glow'd.Two lovely shapes, in azure dress'd,Walk'd first, and led the rein.
The crowd gave way, as onward boreThat vision from the Land of Dreams;Veil'd was the gentle rider's face,But not the two her path that grace.How dim beside the charms they woreAll human beauty seems!
So to the throne the pageant came,And thus the Fairy to the King:"Not unto thee for ever dear,By minstrel's song, to knighthood's earBeseems the wrath that wrongs the vow,Which hallows ev'n a name.
"Bloom there no flowers more sweet by night?Come, Queen, before the judgment throne;Behold Sir Elvar's nameless bride!Now, Queen, his doom thyself decide."She raised her veil,—and all her lightOf beauty round them shone!
The bloom, the eyes, the locks, the smile,That never earth nor time could dim;—Day grew more bright, and air more clear,As Heaven itself were brought more near.—And oh!hisjoy, who felt, the while,That light but glow'd for him!
"My steed, my lance, vain Champion, nowTo arms: and Heaven defend the right!"—Here spake the Queen, "The strife is past,"And in the Lists her glove she cast,"And I myself will crown thy brow,Thou love-defended Knight!"
He comes to claim the garland crown;The changeful thousands shout his name;And faithless beauty round him smiled,How cold, beside the Forest's Child,Who ask'd not love to bring renown,And clung to love in shame!
He bears the prize to those dear feet:"Not mine the guerdon! oh, not mine!"Sadly the fated Fairy hears,And smiles through unreproachful tears;"Nay, keep the flowers, and be they sweetWhen I—no more am thine!"
She lower'd the veil, she turn'd the rein,And ere his lips replied, was gone.As on she went her charmèd way,No mortal dared the steps to stay:And when she vanish'd from the plainAll space seem'd left alone!
Oh, woe! that fairy shape no moreShall bless thy love nor rouse thy pride!He seeks the wood, he gains the spot—The Tree is there, the Fountain not;—Dried up:—its mirthful play is o'er.Ah, where the Fairy Bride?
Alas, with fairies as with men,Who love are victims from the birth!A fearful doom the fairy shrouds,If once unveil'd by day to crowds.The Fountain vanish'd from the glen,The Fairy from the earth!
FOOTNOTES[A]As the subject of this tale is suggested by one of the Fabliaux, the author has represented Arthur and Guenever, according to the view of their characters taken in those French romances—which he hopes he need scarcely say is very different from that taken in his maturer Poem upon the adventures and ordeal of the Dragon King.[B]"With hair that gilds the water as it glides."—Marlowe, Edw. II.[C]As Guenever is often called Genevra in the French romances, the latter name is here adopted for the sake of euphony.
[A]As the subject of this tale is suggested by one of the Fabliaux, the author has represented Arthur and Guenever, according to the view of their characters taken in those French romances—which he hopes he need scarcely say is very different from that taken in his maturer Poem upon the adventures and ordeal of the Dragon King.
[A]As the subject of this tale is suggested by one of the Fabliaux, the author has represented Arthur and Guenever, according to the view of their characters taken in those French romances—which he hopes he need scarcely say is very different from that taken in his maturer Poem upon the adventures and ordeal of the Dragon King.
[B]"With hair that gilds the water as it glides."—Marlowe, Edw. II.
[B]"With hair that gilds the water as it glides."—Marlowe, Edw. II.
[C]As Guenever is often called Genevra in the French romances, the latter name is here adopted for the sake of euphony.
[C]As Guenever is often called Genevra in the French romances, the latter name is here adopted for the sake of euphony.
I.How broad and bright athwart the wave,Its steadfast light the Beacon gave!Far beetling from the headland shore,The rock behind, the surge before,—How lone and stern and tempest-sear'd,Its brow to Heaven the turret rear'd!Type of the glorious souls that areThe lamps our wandering barks to light,With storm and cloud round every star,The Fire-Guides of the Night!
I.
How broad and bright athwart the wave,Its steadfast light the Beacon gave!Far beetling from the headland shore,The rock behind, the surge before,—How lone and stern and tempest-sear'd,Its brow to Heaven the turret rear'd!Type of the glorious souls that areThe lamps our wandering barks to light,With storm and cloud round every star,The Fire-Guides of the Night!
II.How dreary was that solitude!Around it scream'd the sea-fowl's brood;The only sound, amidst the strifeOf wind, and wave, that spoke of life,Except when Heaven's ghost-stars were pale,The distant cry from hurrying sail.From year to year the weeds had grownO'er walls slow-rotting with the damp;And, with the weeds, decay'd, alone,The Warder of the lamp.
II.
How dreary was that solitude!Around it scream'd the sea-fowl's brood;The only sound, amidst the strifeOf wind, and wave, that spoke of life,Except when Heaven's ghost-stars were pale,The distant cry from hurrying sail.From year to year the weeds had grownO'er walls slow-rotting with the damp;And, with the weeds, decay'd, alone,The Warder of the lamp.
III.But twice in every week from shoreFuel and food the boatmen bore;And then so dreary was the scene,So wild and grim the warder's mien,So many a darksome legend gaveAwe to that Tadmor of the wave,That scarce the boat the rock could gain,Scarce heaved the pannier on the stone,Than from the rock and from the main,Th' unwilling life was gone.
III.
But twice in every week from shoreFuel and food the boatmen bore;And then so dreary was the scene,So wild and grim the warder's mien,So many a darksome legend gaveAwe to that Tadmor of the wave,That scarce the boat the rock could gain,Scarce heaved the pannier on the stone,Than from the rock and from the main,Th' unwilling life was gone.
IV.A man he was whom man had drivenTo loathe the earth and doubt the heaven;A tyrant foe (beloved in youth)Had call'd the law to crush the truth;Stripp'd hearth and home, and left to shameThe broken heart—the blacken'd name.Dark exile from his kindred, then,He hail'd the rock, the lonely wild:Upon the man at war with menThe frown of Nature smiled.
IV.
A man he was whom man had drivenTo loathe the earth and doubt the heaven;A tyrant foe (beloved in youth)Had call'd the law to crush the truth;Stripp'd hearth and home, and left to shameThe broken heart—the blacken'd name.Dark exile from his kindred, then,He hail'd the rock, the lonely wild:Upon the man at war with menThe frown of Nature smiled.
V.But suns on suns had roll'd away;The frame was bow'd, the locks were grey:And the eternal sea and skySeem'd one still death to that dead eye;And Terror, like a spectre, roseFrom the dull tomb of that repose.No sight, no sound, of human-kind;The hours, like drops upon the stone!What countless phantoms man may findIn that dark word—"Alone!"
V.
But suns on suns had roll'd away;The frame was bow'd, the locks were grey:And the eternal sea and skySeem'd one still death to that dead eye;And Terror, like a spectre, roseFrom the dull tomb of that repose.No sight, no sound, of human-kind;The hours, like drops upon the stone!What countless phantoms man may findIn that dark word—"Alone!"
VI.Dreams of blue Heaven and Hope can dwellWith Thraldom in its narrowest cell;The airy mind may pierce the bars,Elude the chain, and hail the stars:Canst thou no drearier dungeon guessInspace, when space is loneliness?The body's freedom profits none,The heart desires an equal scope;All nature is a gaol to oneWho knows nor love nor hope!
VI.
Dreams of blue Heaven and Hope can dwellWith Thraldom in its narrowest cell;The airy mind may pierce the bars,Elude the chain, and hail the stars:Canst thou no drearier dungeon guessInspace, when space is loneliness?The body's freedom profits none,The heart desires an equal scope;All nature is a gaol to oneWho knows nor love nor hope!
VII.One day, all summer in the sky,A happy crew came gliding by,With songs of mirth, and looks of glee—A human sunbeam o'er the sea!"O Warder of the Beacon," criedA noble youth, the helm beside,"This summer-day how canst thou bearTo guard thy smileless rock alone,And through the hum of Nature hearNo heart-beat, save thine own?"
VII.
One day, all summer in the sky,A happy crew came gliding by,With songs of mirth, and looks of glee—A human sunbeam o'er the sea!"O Warder of the Beacon," criedA noble youth, the helm beside,"This summer-day how canst thou bearTo guard thy smileless rock alone,And through the hum of Nature hearNo heart-beat, save thine own?"
VIII."I cannot bear to live alone,To hear no heart-heat, save my own;Each moment, on this crowded earth,The joy-bells ring some new-born birth;Can ye not spare one form—but one,The lowest—least beneath the sun,To make the morning musicalWith welcome from a human sound?""Nay," spake the youth,—"and is that all?Thy comrade shall be found."
VIII.
"I cannot bear to live alone,To hear no heart-heat, save my own;Each moment, on this crowded earth,The joy-bells ring some new-born birth;Can ye not spare one form—but one,The lowest—least beneath the sun,To make the morning musicalWith welcome from a human sound?""Nay," spake the youth,—"and is that all?Thy comrade shall be found."
IX.The boat sail'd on, and o'er the mainThe awe of silence closed again;But in the wassail hours of night,When goblets go their rounds of light,And in the dance, and by the sideOf her, yon moon shall mark his bride,Before that Child of Pleasure rose,The lonely rock—the lonelier one,A haunting spectre—till he knowsThe human wish is won!
IX.
The boat sail'd on, and o'er the mainThe awe of silence closed again;But in the wassail hours of night,When goblets go their rounds of light,And in the dance, and by the sideOf her, yon moon shall mark his bride,Before that Child of Pleasure rose,The lonely rock—the lonelier one,A haunting spectre—till he knowsThe human wish is won!
X.Low-murmuring round the turret's baseWave glides on wave its gentle chase;Lone on the rock, the warder hearsThe oar's faint music—hark! it nears—It gains the rock; the rower's handAids a gray, time-worn form to land."Behold the comrade sent to thee!"He said—then went. And in that placeThe Twain were left; and MiseryAnd Guilt stood face to face!
X.
Low-murmuring round the turret's baseWave glides on wave its gentle chase;Lone on the rock, the warder hearsThe oar's faint music—hark! it nears—It gains the rock; the rower's handAids a gray, time-worn form to land."Behold the comrade sent to thee!"He said—then went. And in that placeThe Twain were left; and MiseryAnd Guilt stood face to face!
XI.Yes, face to faceonce morearray'd,Stood the Betrayer—the Betray'd!Oh, how through all those gloomy years,When Guilt revolves what Conscience fears,Had that wrong'd victim breathed the vowThat if but face to face—And now,There, face to face with him he stood,By the great sea, on that wild steep;Around, the voiceless Solitude,Below, the funeral Deep!
XI.
Yes, face to faceonce morearray'd,Stood the Betrayer—the Betray'd!Oh, how through all those gloomy years,When Guilt revolves what Conscience fears,Had that wrong'd victim breathed the vowThat if but face to face—And now,There, face to face with him he stood,By the great sea, on that wild steep;Around, the voiceless Solitude,Below, the funeral Deep!
XII.They gazed—the Injurer's face grew pale—Pale writhe the lips, the murmurs fail,And thrice he strives to speak—in vain!The sun looks blood-red on the main,The boat glides, waning less and less—No Law lives in the wilderness,Except Revenge—man's first and last!Those wrongs—that wretch—could they forgive?All that could sweeten life was past;Yet, oh, how sweet to live!
XII.
They gazed—the Injurer's face grew pale—Pale writhe the lips, the murmurs fail,And thrice he strives to speak—in vain!The sun looks blood-red on the main,The boat glides, waning less and less—No Law lives in the wilderness,Except Revenge—man's first and last!Those wrongs—that wretch—could they forgive?All that could sweeten life was past;Yet, oh, how sweet to live!
XIII.He gazed before, he glanced behind;There, o'er the steep rock seems to windThe devious, scarce-seen path, a snakeIn slime and sloth might, labouring, make.With a wild cry he springs;—he crawls;Crag upon crag he clears;—and fallsBreathless and mute; and o'er him stands,Pale as himself, the chasing foe—Mercy! what mean those claspèd hands,Those lips that tremble so?
XIII.
He gazed before, he glanced behind;There, o'er the steep rock seems to windThe devious, scarce-seen path, a snakeIn slime and sloth might, labouring, make.With a wild cry he springs;—he crawls;Crag upon crag he clears;—and fallsBreathless and mute; and o'er him stands,Pale as himself, the chasing foe—Mercy! what mean those claspèd hands,Those lips that tremble so?
XIV."Thou hast cursed my life, my wealth despoil'd;My hearth "is cold, my name is soil'd;The wreck of what was Man, I stand'Mid the lone sea and desert land!Well, I forgive thee all; but beA human voice and face to me!O stay—O stay—and let me yetOne thing, that speaks man's language, know!—The waste hath taught me to forgetThat earth once held a foe!"
XIV.
"Thou hast cursed my life, my wealth despoil'd;My hearth "is cold, my name is soil'd;The wreck of what was Man, I stand'Mid the lone sea and desert land!Well, I forgive thee all; but beA human voice and face to me!O stay—O stay—and let me yetOne thing, that speaks man's language, know!—The waste hath taught me to forgetThat earth once held a foe!"
XV.O Heaven! methinks, from thy soft skies,Look'd tearful down the angel-eyes;Back to those walls to mark them go,Hand clasp'd in hand—the Foe and Foe!And when the sun sunk slowly there,Low knelt the prayerless man in prayer.He knelt, no more the lonely one;Within, secure, a comrade sleeps;That sun shall not go down uponA desert in the deeps.
XV.
O Heaven! methinks, from thy soft skies,Look'd tearful down the angel-eyes;Back to those walls to mark them go,Hand clasp'd in hand—the Foe and Foe!And when the sun sunk slowly there,Low knelt the prayerless man in prayer.He knelt, no more the lonely one;Within, secure, a comrade sleeps;That sun shall not go down uponA desert in the deeps.
XVI.He knelt—the man who half till thenForgot his God in loathing men,—He knelt, and pray'd that God to spareThe Foe to grow the Brother there;And, reconciled by Love to Heaven,Forgiving—was he not forgiven?"Yes, man for man thou didst create;Man's wrongs, man's blessings can atone!To learn how Love can spring from Hate—Go, Hate,—and live alone."
XVI.
He knelt—the man who half till thenForgot his God in loathing men,—He knelt, and pray'd that God to spareThe Foe to grow the Brother there;And, reconciled by Love to Heaven,Forgiving—was he not forgiven?"Yes, man for man thou didst create;Man's wrongs, man's blessings can atone!To learn how Love can spring from Hate—Go, Hate,—and live alone."
It was the time when Spring on EarthGives Eden to the young;On Provence shone the Vesper star;Beneath fair Marguerite's lattice-barThe Minstrel, Aymer, sung—"The year may take a second birth,But May is swift of wing;The Heart whose sunshine lives in theeOne May from year to year shall see;Thy love, eternal spring!"The Ladye blush'd, the Ladye sighed,All Heaven was in that Hour!The Heart he pledged was leal and brave—And what the pledge the Ladye gave?—Her hand let fall a flower!And when shall Aymer claim his Bride?It is the hour to part!He goes to guard the Saviour's grave;—Her pledge, a flower, the Maiden gave,Andhis—the Minstrel's heart!Behold, a Cross, a Grave, a Foe!What else—Man's Holy Land?High deeds, that level Rank to Fame,Have bought young Aymer's right to claimThe high-born Maiden's hand.High deeds should ask no meed below—Their meed is in the sky.The poison-dart, in Victory's hour,Has pierced the Heart where lies the flower,And hers its latest sigh!It is the time when Spring on EarthGives Eden to the young,And harp and hymn proclaim the Bride,Who smiles, Count Raimond, by thy side,—The Maid whom Aymer sung!And, darkly through the wassail mirth,A pale procession see!—Turn, Marguerite, from the bridegroom turn—Thine Aymer's heart—the funeral urn—Hispledge, comes back to thee!Lo, on the Urn how wither'd liesThy gift—the scentless flower!Amid those garlands, fresh and fair,That prank the hall and glad the air,What does that wither'd flower?One tear bedew'd the Ladye's eyes,No tears beseem the day.The dead can ne'er to life return"A marble tomb shall grace the Urn,"She said, and turn'd away.The marble rose the Urn above,The World went on the same;The Ladye smiled. Count Raimond's bride,And flowers, like hers, that bloom'd and died,Each May returning came.The faded flower, the dream of love,The poison and the dart,The tearful trust, the smiling wrong,The tomb,—behold, O Child of Song,The History of thy Heart!
It was the time when Spring on EarthGives Eden to the young;On Provence shone the Vesper star;Beneath fair Marguerite's lattice-barThe Minstrel, Aymer, sung—
"The year may take a second birth,But May is swift of wing;The Heart whose sunshine lives in theeOne May from year to year shall see;Thy love, eternal spring!"
The Ladye blush'd, the Ladye sighed,All Heaven was in that Hour!The Heart he pledged was leal and brave—And what the pledge the Ladye gave?—Her hand let fall a flower!
And when shall Aymer claim his Bride?It is the hour to part!He goes to guard the Saviour's grave;—Her pledge, a flower, the Maiden gave,Andhis—the Minstrel's heart!
Behold, a Cross, a Grave, a Foe!What else—Man's Holy Land?High deeds, that level Rank to Fame,Have bought young Aymer's right to claimThe high-born Maiden's hand.
High deeds should ask no meed below—Their meed is in the sky.The poison-dart, in Victory's hour,Has pierced the Heart where lies the flower,And hers its latest sigh!
It is the time when Spring on EarthGives Eden to the young,And harp and hymn proclaim the Bride,Who smiles, Count Raimond, by thy side,—The Maid whom Aymer sung!
And, darkly through the wassail mirth,A pale procession see!—Turn, Marguerite, from the bridegroom turn—Thine Aymer's heart—the funeral urn—Hispledge, comes back to thee!
Lo, on the Urn how wither'd liesThy gift—the scentless flower!Amid those garlands, fresh and fair,That prank the hall and glad the air,What does that wither'd flower?
One tear bedew'd the Ladye's eyes,No tears beseem the day.The dead can ne'er to life return"A marble tomb shall grace the Urn,"She said, and turn'd away.
The marble rose the Urn above,The World went on the same;The Ladye smiled. Count Raimond's bride,And flowers, like hers, that bloom'd and died,Each May returning came.
The faded flower, the dream of love,The poison and the dart,The tearful trust, the smiling wrong,The tomb,—behold, O Child of Song,The History of thy Heart!
In the Isola Bella, upon the Lago Maggiore, where the richest vegetation of the tropics grows in the vicinity of the Alps, there is a lofty laurel-tree (the bay), tall as the tallest oak, on which, a few days before the battle of Marengo, Napoleon carved the word "BATTAGLIA." The bark has fallen away from the inscription, most of the letters are gone, and the few left are nearly effaced.
In the Isola Bella, upon the Lago Maggiore, where the richest vegetation of the tropics grows in the vicinity of the Alps, there is a lofty laurel-tree (the bay), tall as the tallest oak, on which, a few days before the battle of Marengo, Napoleon carved the word "BATTAGLIA." The bark has fallen away from the inscription, most of the letters are gone, and the few left are nearly effaced.
I.O fairy island of a fairy sea,Wherein Calypso might have spell'd the Greek,Or Flora piled her fragrant treasury,Cull'd from each shore her Zephyr's wings could seek.—From rocks, where aloes blow.Tier upon tier, Hesperian fruits arise;The hanging bowers of this soft Babylon;An India mellows in the Lombard skies,And changelings, stolen from the Lybian sun,Smile to yon Alps of snow.
I.
O fairy island of a fairy sea,Wherein Calypso might have spell'd the Greek,Or Flora piled her fragrant treasury,Cull'd from each shore her Zephyr's wings could seek.—From rocks, where aloes blow.
Tier upon tier, Hesperian fruits arise;The hanging bowers of this soft Babylon;An India mellows in the Lombard skies,And changelings, stolen from the Lybian sun,Smile to yon Alps of snow.
II.Amid this gentlest dream-land of the wave,Arrested, stood the wondrous Corsican;As if one glimpse the better angel gaveOf the bright garden-life vouschafed to manEre blood defiled the world.He stood—that grand Sesostris of the North—While paused the car to which were harness'd kings;And in the airs, that lovingly sigh'd forthThe balms of Araby, his eagle-wingsTheir sullen thunder furl'd.
II.
Amid this gentlest dream-land of the wave,Arrested, stood the wondrous Corsican;As if one glimpse the better angel gaveOf the bright garden-life vouschafed to manEre blood defiled the world.
He stood—that grand Sesostris of the North—While paused the car to which were harness'd kings;And in the airs, that lovingly sigh'd forthThe balms of Araby, his eagle-wingsTheir sullen thunder furl'd.
III.And o'er the marble hush of those large brows,Dread with the awe of the Olympian nod,A giant laurel spread its breathless boughs,The prophet-tree of the dark Pythian god,Shadowing the doom of thrones!What, in such hour of rest and scene of joy,Stirs in the cells of that unfathom'd brain?Comes back one memory of the musing boy,Lone gazing o'er the yet unmeasured main,Whose waifs are human bones?
III.
And o'er the marble hush of those large brows,Dread with the awe of the Olympian nod,A giant laurel spread its breathless boughs,The prophet-tree of the dark Pythian god,Shadowing the doom of thrones!
What, in such hour of rest and scene of joy,Stirs in the cells of that unfathom'd brain?Comes back one memory of the musing boy,Lone gazing o'er the yet unmeasured main,Whose waifs are human bones?
IV.To those deep eyes doth one soft dream return?Soft with the bloom of youth's unrifled spring,When Hope first fills from founts divine the urn,And rapt Ambition, on the angel's wing,Floats first through golden air?Or doth that smile recall the midnight street,When thine own star the solemn ray denied,And to a stage-mime,[A]for obscure retreatFrom hungry Want, the destined Cæsar sigh'd?—Still Fate, as then, asks prayer.
IV.
To those deep eyes doth one soft dream return?Soft with the bloom of youth's unrifled spring,When Hope first fills from founts divine the urn,And rapt Ambition, on the angel's wing,Floats first through golden air?
Or doth that smile recall the midnight street,When thine own star the solemn ray denied,And to a stage-mime,[A]for obscure retreatFrom hungry Want, the destined Cæsar sigh'd?—Still Fate, as then, asks prayer.
V.Under that prophet tree, thou standest now;Inscribe thy wish upon the mystic rind;Hath the warm human heart no tender vowLink'd with sweet household names?—no hope enshrinedWhere thoughts are priests of Peace.Or, if dire Hannibal thy model be,Dread lest, like him, thou bear the thunderhome!Perchance ev'n now a Scipio dawns for thee,Thou doomest Carthage while thou smitest Rome—Write, write "Let carnage cease!"
V.
Under that prophet tree, thou standest now;Inscribe thy wish upon the mystic rind;Hath the warm human heart no tender vowLink'd with sweet household names?—no hope enshrinedWhere thoughts are priests of Peace.
Or, if dire Hannibal thy model be,Dread lest, like him, thou bear the thunderhome!Perchance ev'n now a Scipio dawns for thee,Thou doomest Carthage while thou smitest Rome—Write, write "Let carnage cease!"
VI.Whispers from heaven have strife itself inform'd;—"Peace" was our dauntless Falkland's latest sigh,Navarre's frank Henry fed the forts he storm'd.Wild Xerxes wept the Hosts he doom'd to die!Ev'n War pays dues to Love!Note how harmoniously the art of ManBlends with the Beautiful of Nature! seeHow the true Laurel of the DelianShelters the Grace!—Apollo's peaceful treeBlunts ev'n the bolt of Jove.
VI.
Whispers from heaven have strife itself inform'd;—"Peace" was our dauntless Falkland's latest sigh,Navarre's frank Henry fed the forts he storm'd.Wild Xerxes wept the Hosts he doom'd to die!Ev'n War pays dues to Love!
Note how harmoniously the art of ManBlends with the Beautiful of Nature! seeHow the true Laurel of the DelianShelters the Grace!—Apollo's peaceful treeBlunts ev'n the bolt of Jove.
VII.Write on the sacred bark such votive prayer,As the mild Power may grant in coming years,Some word to make thy memory gentle there;—More than renown, kind thought for men endearsA Hero to Mankind.Slow moved the mighty hand—a tremour shookThe leaves, and hoarse winds groan'd along the wood;The Pythian tree the damning sentence took,And to the sun the battle-word of bloodGlared from the gashing rind.
VII.
Write on the sacred bark such votive prayer,As the mild Power may grant in coming years,Some word to make thy memory gentle there;—More than renown, kind thought for men endearsA Hero to Mankind.
Slow moved the mighty hand—a tremour shookThe leaves, and hoarse winds groan'd along the wood;The Pythian tree the damning sentence took,And to the sun the battle-word of bloodGlared from the gashing rind.
VIII.So thou hast writ the word, and sign'd thy doom:Farewell, and pass upon thy gory way,The direful skein the pausing Fates resume!Let not the Elysian grove thy steps delayFrom thy Promethean goal.The fatal tree the abhorrent word retain'd,Till the last Battle on its bloody strandFlung what were nobler had no life remain'd,—The crownless front and the disarmèd handAnd the' foil'd Titan Soul;
VIII.
So thou hast writ the word, and sign'd thy doom:Farewell, and pass upon thy gory way,The direful skein the pausing Fates resume!Let not the Elysian grove thy steps delayFrom thy Promethean goal.
The fatal tree the abhorrent word retain'd,Till the last Battle on its bloody strandFlung what were nobler had no life remain'd,—The crownless front and the disarmèd handAnd the' foil'd Titan Soul;
IX.Now, year by year, the warrior's iron markCrumbles away from the majestic tree,The indignant life-sap ebbing from the barkWhere the grim death-word to HumanityProfaned the Lord of Day.High o'er the pomp of blooms, as greenly still,Aspires that tree—the Archetype of Fame,The stem rejects all chronicle of ill;The bark shrinks back—thetreesurvives the same—Therecordrots away.
IX.
Now, year by year, the warrior's iron markCrumbles away from the majestic tree,The indignant life-sap ebbing from the barkWhere the grim death-word to HumanityProfaned the Lord of Day.
High o'er the pomp of blooms, as greenly still,Aspires that tree—the Archetype of Fame,The stem rejects all chronicle of ill;The bark shrinks back—thetreesurvives the same—Therecordrots away.
Baveno, Oct. 8, 1845.
"I was walking, some days after, in the new apartments of his palace. I recognized the approach of the cardinal (Mazaria) by the sound of his slippered feet, which he dragged one after the other, as a man enfeebled by a mortal malady. I concealed myself behind the tapestry, and I heard him say, 'Il faut quitter tout cela!' ('I must leave all that!') He stopped at every step, for he was very feeble, and casting his eyes on each object that attracted him, he sighed forth, as from the bottom of his heart, 'II faut quitter tout cela! What pains have I taken to acquire these things! Can I abandon them without regret? I shall never see them more where I am about to go!'" &c.—Mémoires Inédits de Louis Henri,Comte de Brienne,Barrière's Edition, vol. ii. p. 115.
"I was walking, some days after, in the new apartments of his palace. I recognized the approach of the cardinal (Mazaria) by the sound of his slippered feet, which he dragged one after the other, as a man enfeebled by a mortal malady. I concealed myself behind the tapestry, and I heard him say, 'Il faut quitter tout cela!' ('I must leave all that!') He stopped at every step, for he was very feeble, and casting his eyes on each object that attracted him, he sighed forth, as from the bottom of his heart, 'II faut quitter tout cela! What pains have I taken to acquire these things! Can I abandon them without regret? I shall never see them more where I am about to go!'" &c.—Mémoires Inédits de Louis Henri,Comte de Brienne,Barrière's Edition, vol. ii. p. 115.
Serene the Marble ImagesGleam'd down, in lengthen'd rows;Their life, like the Uranides,A glory and repose.Glow'd forth the costly canvas spoilFrom many a gorgeous frame;One race will starve the living toil,The next will gild the name.That stately silence silvering through,The steadfast tapers shoneUpon the Painter's pomp of hue,The Sculptor's solemn stone.Saved from the deluge-storm of Time,Within that ark, surveyWhate'er of elder Art sublimeSurvives a world's decay!There creeps a foot, there sighs a breath,Along the quiet floor;An old man leaves his bed of deathTo count his treasures o'er.Behold the dying mortal glideAmidst the eternal Art;It were a sight to stir with prideSome pining Painter's heart!It were a sight that might beguileSad Genius from the Hour,To see the life of Genius smileUpon the death of Power.The ghost-like master of that hallIs king-like in the land;And France's proudest heads could fallBeneath that spectre hand.Veil'd in the Roman purple, preysThe canker-worm within;And more than Bourbon's sceptre swaysThe crook of Mazarin.Italian, yet more dear to theeThan sceptre, or than crook,The Art in which thine ItalyStill charm'd thy glazing look!So feebly, and with wistful eyes,He crawls along the floor;A dying man, who, ere he dies,Would count his treasures o'er.And, from the landscape's soft repose,Smiled thy calm soul, Lorraine;And, from the deeps of Raphael, roseCelestial Love again.In pomp, which his own pomp recalls,The haggard owner seesThy cloth of gold and banquet halls,Thou stately Veronese!While, cold as if they scorn'd to hailCreations not their own,The Gods of Greece stand marble-paleAround the Thunderer's throne.There, Hebè brims the urn of gold;There, Hermes treads the skies;There, ever in the Serpent's fold,Laocoon deathless dies.There, startled from her mountain rest,Young Dian turns to drawThe arrowy death that waits the breastHer slumber fail'd to awe.There, earth subdued by dauntless deeds,And life's large labours done,Stands, sad as Worth with mortal meeds,Alcmena's mournful son.[B]They gaze upon the fading formWith mute immortal eyes;—Here, clay that waits the hungry worm;There, children of the skies.Then slowly as he totter'd by,The old Man, unresign'd,Sigh'd forth: "Alas! and must I die,And leave such life behind?"The Beautiful, from which I part,Alone defies decay!"Still, while he sigh'd, the eternal ArtSmiled down upon the clay.And as he waved the feeble hand,And crawl'd unto the porch,He saw the Silent Genius standWith the extinguish'd torch!The world without, for ever yours,Ye stern remorseless Three;What, from that changeful world, securesCalm Immortality?Nay, soon or late decays, alas!Or canvass, stone, or scroll;From all material forms must passTo forms afresh, the soul.'Tis but in thatwhich doth create,Duration can be sought;A worm can waste the canvass;—FateNe'er swept from Time, a Thought.Lives Phidias in his works alone?—His Jove returns to air:But wake one godlike shape from stone,And Phidian thought is there!Blot out the Iliad from the earth,Still Homer's thought would fireEach deed that boasts sublimer worth,And each diviner lyre.Like light, connecting star to star,Doth Thought transmitted run;—Rays that to earth the nearest are,Have longest left the sun.
Serene the Marble ImagesGleam'd down, in lengthen'd rows;Their life, like the Uranides,A glory and repose.
Glow'd forth the costly canvas spoilFrom many a gorgeous frame;One race will starve the living toil,The next will gild the name.
That stately silence silvering through,The steadfast tapers shoneUpon the Painter's pomp of hue,The Sculptor's solemn stone.
Saved from the deluge-storm of Time,Within that ark, surveyWhate'er of elder Art sublimeSurvives a world's decay!
There creeps a foot, there sighs a breath,Along the quiet floor;An old man leaves his bed of deathTo count his treasures o'er.
Behold the dying mortal glideAmidst the eternal Art;It were a sight to stir with prideSome pining Painter's heart!
It were a sight that might beguileSad Genius from the Hour,To see the life of Genius smileUpon the death of Power.
The ghost-like master of that hallIs king-like in the land;And France's proudest heads could fallBeneath that spectre hand.
Veil'd in the Roman purple, preysThe canker-worm within;And more than Bourbon's sceptre swaysThe crook of Mazarin.
Italian, yet more dear to theeThan sceptre, or than crook,The Art in which thine ItalyStill charm'd thy glazing look!
So feebly, and with wistful eyes,He crawls along the floor;A dying man, who, ere he dies,Would count his treasures o'er.
And, from the landscape's soft repose,Smiled thy calm soul, Lorraine;And, from the deeps of Raphael, roseCelestial Love again.
In pomp, which his own pomp recalls,The haggard owner seesThy cloth of gold and banquet halls,Thou stately Veronese!
While, cold as if they scorn'd to hailCreations not their own,The Gods of Greece stand marble-paleAround the Thunderer's throne.
There, Hebè brims the urn of gold;There, Hermes treads the skies;There, ever in the Serpent's fold,Laocoon deathless dies.
There, startled from her mountain rest,Young Dian turns to drawThe arrowy death that waits the breastHer slumber fail'd to awe.
There, earth subdued by dauntless deeds,And life's large labours done,Stands, sad as Worth with mortal meeds,Alcmena's mournful son.[B]
They gaze upon the fading formWith mute immortal eyes;—Here, clay that waits the hungry worm;There, children of the skies.
Then slowly as he totter'd by,The old Man, unresign'd,Sigh'd forth: "Alas! and must I die,And leave such life behind?
"The Beautiful, from which I part,Alone defies decay!"Still, while he sigh'd, the eternal ArtSmiled down upon the clay.
And as he waved the feeble hand,And crawl'd unto the porch,He saw the Silent Genius standWith the extinguish'd torch!
The world without, for ever yours,Ye stern remorseless Three;What, from that changeful world, securesCalm Immortality?
Nay, soon or late decays, alas!Or canvass, stone, or scroll;From all material forms must passTo forms afresh, the soul.
'Tis but in thatwhich doth create,Duration can be sought;A worm can waste the canvass;—FateNe'er swept from Time, a Thought.
Lives Phidias in his works alone?—His Jove returns to air:But wake one godlike shape from stone,And Phidian thought is there!
Blot out the Iliad from the earth,Still Homer's thought would fireEach deed that boasts sublimer worth,And each diviner lyre.
Like light, connecting star to star,Doth Thought transmitted run;—Rays that to earth the nearest are,Have longest left the sun.