THEPLEASURES OF HOPE.PART II.

END OF THE FIRST PART.

[3]An error of the poet’s: Elijah did not ascend from Carmel, but from the eastern side of Jordan.—(See2 Kingsii. 7-11.)[4]See Narrative of Byron’s Shipwreck.—Notes at end of Volume.[5]A Briton and a friend.—Don Patricio Gedd, a Scotch physician in one of the Spanish settlements, hospitably relieved Byron and his wretched associates, of which the commodore speaks in the warmest terms of gratitude.[6]The seven strings of Apollo’s harp were the symbolical representation of the seven planets. Herschell, by discovering an eighth, might be said to add another string to the instrument.[7]Linnæus, the famous Swedish Botanist.[8]Socrates.[9]Deep from his vaults, the Loxian murmurs flow.—Loxias is the name frequently given to Apollo by Greek writers; it is met with more than once in the Chœphoræ of Æschylus.[10]Exodusxvii. 3, 5, 6.[11]The superstition of the African savages.—See Notes.[12]Siberia.—See Notes.[13]See Notes.[14]The negroes in the West Indies were summoned to their work by a shell or horn.[15]See Notes.[16]See the description of the Cape of Good Hope, translated from Camoens by Mickle.[17]See Notesat the end of the volume.[18]The oriental Minerva.[19]The god of Love.[20]Ganesa answers to Janus.

[3]An error of the poet’s: Elijah did not ascend from Carmel, but from the eastern side of Jordan.—(See2 Kingsii. 7-11.)

[4]See Narrative of Byron’s Shipwreck.—Notes at end of Volume.

[5]A Briton and a friend.—Don Patricio Gedd, a Scotch physician in one of the Spanish settlements, hospitably relieved Byron and his wretched associates, of which the commodore speaks in the warmest terms of gratitude.

[6]The seven strings of Apollo’s harp were the symbolical representation of the seven planets. Herschell, by discovering an eighth, might be said to add another string to the instrument.

[7]Linnæus, the famous Swedish Botanist.

[8]Socrates.

[9]Deep from his vaults, the Loxian murmurs flow.—Loxias is the name frequently given to Apollo by Greek writers; it is met with more than once in the Chœphoræ of Æschylus.

[10]Exodusxvii. 3, 5, 6.

[11]The superstition of the African savages.—See Notes.

[12]Siberia.—See Notes.

[13]See Notes.

[14]The negroes in the West Indies were summoned to their work by a shell or horn.

[15]See Notes.

[16]See the description of the Cape of Good Hope, translated from Camoens by Mickle.

[17]See Notesat the end of the volume.

[18]The oriental Minerva.

[19]The god of Love.

[20]Ganesa answers to Janus.

Apostrophe to the power of Love ... its intimate connection with generous and social Sensibility ... allusion to that beautiful passage in the beginning of the book of Genesis, which represents the happiness of Paradise itself incomplete, till love was superadded to its other blessings ... the dreams of future felicity which a lively imagination is apt to cherish, when Hope is animated by refined attachment ... this disposition to combine, in one imaginary scene of residence, all that is pleasing in our estimate of happiness, compared to the skill of the great artist who personified perfect beauty, in the picture of Venus, by an assemblage of the most beautiful features he could find ... a summer and winter evening described, as they may be supposed to arise in the mind of one who wishes, with enthusiasm, for the union of friendship and retirement.

Hope and imagination inseparable agents ... even in those contemplative moments when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, our minds are not unattended with an impression that we shall some day have a wider and distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial glimpse we now enjoy.

The last and most sublime influence of Hope is the concluding topic of the poem ... the predominance of a belief in a future state over the terrors attendant on dissolution ... the baneful influence of that sceptical philosophy which bars us from such comforts ... allusion to the fate of a suicide ... episode of Conrad and Ellenore ... conclusion.

In joyous youth, what soul hath never knownThought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own?Who hath not paused while Beauty’s pensive eyeAsked from his heart the homage of a sigh?Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame,The power of grace, the magic of a name?There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow,Cold as the rocks on Torneo’s hoary brow;There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed,In self-adoring pride securely mailed:—But, triumph not, ye peace-enamoured few!Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you!For you no fancy consecrates the sceneWhere rapture uttered vows, and wept between;’Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet;No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed,The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead?No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy,And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy!And say, without our hopes, without our fears,Without the home that plighted love endears,Without the smile from partial beauty won,Oh! what were man?—a world without a sun.Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,There dwelt no joy in Eden’s rosy bower!In vain the viewless seraph lingering there,At starry midnight charmed the silent air:In vain the wild bird carolled on the steep,To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep;In vain, to soothe, the solitary shade,Aërial notes in mingling measure played;The summer wind that shook the spangled tree,The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;—Still slowly passed the melancholy day,And still the stranger wist not where to stray.The world was sad!—the garden was a wild!And man, the hermit, sighed—till woman smiled!True, the sad power to generous hearts may bringDelirious anguish on his fiery wing;Barred from delight by Fate’s untimely hand,By wealthless lot, or pitiless command;Or doomed to gaze on beauties that adornThe smile of triumph or the frown of scorn;While Memory watches o’er the sad review,Of joys that faded like the morning dew;Peace may depart—and life and nature seemA barren path, a wildness, and a dream!But can the noble mind for ever brood,The willing victim of a weary mood,On heartless cares that squander life away,And cloud young Genius brightening into day?—Shame to the coward thought that e’er betrayedThe noon of manhood to a myrtle shade![21]—IfHope’screative spirit cannot raiseOne trophy sacred to thy future days,Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrineOf hopeless love to murmur and repine!But, should a sigh of milder mood expressThy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness,Should Heaven’s fair harbinger delight to pourHer blissful visions on thy pensive hour,No tear to blot thy memory’s pictured pageNo fears but such as fancy can assuage;Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may missThe peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss,(For love pursues an ever-devious race,True to the winding lineaments of grace;)Yet still may hope her talisman employTo snatch from Heaven anticipated joy,And all her kindred energies impartThat burn the brightest in the purest heart.When first the Rhodian’s mimic art arrayedThe queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade,The happy master mingled on his pieceEach look that charmed him in the fair of Greece.To faultless nature true, he stole a graceFrom every finer form and sweeter face;And as he sojourned on the Ægean isles,Woo’d all their love, and treasured all their smiles;Then glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined,And mortal charms seemed heavenly when combinedLove on the picture smiled! Expression pouredHer mingling spirit there—and Greece adored!So thy fair hand, enamoured Fancy! gleansThe treasured pictures of a thousand scenes;Thy pencil traces on the lover’s thoughtSome cottage-home, from towns and toil remote,Where love and lore may claim alternate hours,With Peace embosom’d in Idalian bowers!Remote from busy Life’s bewildered way,O’er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway!Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore,With hermit steps to wander and adore!There shall he love, when genial morn appears,Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears,To watch the brightening roses of the sky,And muse on Nature with a poet’s eye!—And when the sun’s last splendour lights the deep,The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep;When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail,And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale,His path shall be where streamy mountains swellTheir shadowy grandeur o’er the narrow dell,Where mouldering piles and forests intervene,Mingling with darker tints the living green:No circling hills his ravished eye to bound,Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around.The moon is up—the watch-tower dimly burns—And down the vale his sober step returns;But pauses oft, as winding rocks conveyThe still sweet fall of music far away;And oft he lingers from his home a whileTo watch the dying notes!—and start, and smile!Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweepThe darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep!Though boundless snows the withered heath deformAnd the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm,Yet shall the smile of social love repay,With mental light, the melancholy day!And, when its short and sullen noon is o’er,The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore,How bright the faggots in his little hallBlaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!How blest he names, in Love’s familiar tone,The kind, fair friend, by nature marked his own;And, in the waveless mirror of his mind,Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,Since Anna’s empire o’er his heart began!Since first he called her his before the holy man!Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome,And light the wintry paradise of home!And let the half-uncurtained window hailSome way-worn man benighted in the vale!Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high,As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky,While fiery hosts in Heaven’s wide circle play,And bathe in lurid light the milky-way,Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower,Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour—With pathos shall command, with wit beguile,A generous tear of anguish, or a smile—Thy woes, Arion![22]and thy simple tale,O’er all the heart shall triumph and prevail!Charmed as they read the verse too sadly true,How gallant Albert, and his weary crew,Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save,And toiled—and shrieked—and perished on the wave!Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna’s steep,The seaman’s cry was heard along the deep;There, on his funeral waters, dark and wild,The dying father blessed his darling child!“Oh! Mercy, shield her innocence,” he cried,Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died!Or they will learn how generous worth sublimesThe robber Moor,[23]and pleads for all his crimes!How poor Amelia kissed, with many a tear,His hand blood-stained, but ever, ever dear!Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord,And wept and prayed perdition from his sword!Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cryThe strings of Nature cracked with agony!He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled,And burst the ties that bound him to the world!Turn from his dying words, that smite with steelThe shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel—Turn to the gentler melodies that suitThalia’s harp, or Pan’s Arcadian lute;Or, down the stream of Truth’s historic page,From clime to clime descend, from age to age!Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrudeThan Fancy fashions in her wildest mood;There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rateWhat millions died—that Cæsar might be great![24]Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore,Marched by their Charles[25]to Dneiper’s swampy shore;Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast,The Swedish soldier sunk—and groaned his last!File after file the stormy showers benumb,Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum!Horseman and horse confessed the bitter pang,And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang!Yet, ere he sunk in Nature’s last repose,Ere life’s warm torrent to the fountain froze,The dying man to Sweden turned his eye,Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh!Imperial Pride looked sullen on his plight,And Charles beheld—nor shuddered at the sight!Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky,Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie,AndHopeattends, companion of the way,Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day!In yonder pensile orb, and every sphereThat gems the starry girdle of the year;In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell,Pure from their God, created millions dwell,Whose names and natures, unrevealed below,We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know;For, as Iona’s saint,[26]a giant form,Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm(When o’er each Runic altar, weed-entwined,The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,)Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoarFrom Kilda to the green Ierne’s shore;So, when thy pure and renovated mindThis perishable dust hath left behind,Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train,Like distant isles embosomed in the main;Rapt to the shrine where motion first began,And light and life in mingling torrent ran;From whence each bright rotundity was hurled,The throne of God,—the centre of the world!Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sungThat suasiveHopehath but a Syren tongue!True; she may sport with life’s untutored day,Nor heed the solace of its last decay,The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,And part, like Ajut—never to return![27]But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuageThe grief and passions of our greener age,Though dull the close of life, and far awayEach flower that hailed the dawning of the day;Yet o’er her lovely hopes, that once were dear,The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe,With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill,And weep their falsehood, though she love them still!Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled,The king of Judah mourned his rebel child!Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boySmiled on his sire, and filled his heart with joy!My Absalom! the voice of Nature cried:Oh! that for thee thy father could have died!For bloody was the deed, and rashly done,That slew my Absalom!—my son!—my son!UnfadingHope! when life’s last embers burn,When soul to soul, and dust to dust return!Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power!What though each spark of earth-born rapture flyThe quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!Bright to the soul thy seraph hands conveyThe morning dream of life’s eternal day—Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,And all the phœnix spirit burns within!Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,It is a dread and awful thing to die!Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun!Where Time’s far-wandering tide has never run,From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres,A warning comes, unheard by other ears.’Tis Heaven’s commanding trumpet, long and loud,Like Sinai’s thunder, pealing from the cloud!While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trodThe roaring waves, and call’d upon his God,With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,And shrieks, and hovers o’er the dark abyss!Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illumeThe dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that rollCimmerian darkness on the parting soul!Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,Chased on his night-steed by the star of day.The strife is o’er—the pangs of Nature close,And life’s last rapture triumphs o’er her woes.Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hailBethlehem’s shepherds in the lonely vale,When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight stillWatched on the holy towers of Zion hill!Soul of the just! companion of the dead!Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled?Back to its heavenly source thy being goes,Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose;Doomed on his airy path a while to burn,And doomed, like thee, to travel, and return.—Hark! from the world’s exploding centre driven,With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven,Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,On bickering wheels, and adamantine car;From planet whirled to planet more remote,He visits realms beyond the reach of thought,But wheeling homeward, when his course is run,Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!So hath the traveller of earth unfurledHer trembling wings, emerging from the world;And o’er the path by mortal never trod,Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God!Oh! lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse,One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance,Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;Who, mouldering earthward, ’reft of every trust,In joyless union wedded to the dust,Could all his parting energy dismiss,And call this barren world sufficient bliss?—There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien,Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene,Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day,Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,Frail as the leaf in Autumn’s yellow bower,Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower;A friendless slave, a child without a sire,Whose mortal life and momentary fire,Lights to the grave his chance-created form,As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;And, when the gun’s tremendous flash is o’er,To night and silence sink for evermore!—Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame?Is this your triumph—this your proud applause,Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?For this hath Science searched, on weary wing,By shore and sea—each mute and living thing!Launched with Iberia’s pilot[28]from the steep,To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep?Or round the cope her living chariot driven,And wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven?Oh! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there,To waft us home the message of despair?Then bind the palm, thy sage’s brow to suit,Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit!Ah me! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears,Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow’s tears,Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,As waves the night-shade round the sceptic’s head.What is the bigot’s torch, the tyrant’s chain?I smile on death, if heavenwardHoperemain!But, if the warring winds of Nature’s strifeBe all the faithless charter of my life,If Chance awaked, inexorable power,This frail and feverish being of an hour;Doomed o’er the world’s precarious scene to sweep,Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,To know Delight but by her parting smile,And toil, and wish, and weep a little while;Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vainThis troubled pulse, and visionary brain!Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom,And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb!Truth, ever lovely,—since the world began,The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man,—How can thy words from balmy slumber startReposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart!Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled,And that were true which Nature never told,Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field;No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed!Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,The doom that bars us from a better fate;But, sad as angels for the good man’s sin,Weep to record, and blush to give it in!And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay,Pause at her martyr’s tomb, and read the lay.Down by the wilds of yon deserted valeIt darkly hints a melancholy tale!There, as the homeless madman sits alone,In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan!And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds,When the Moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds.Poor lost Alonzo! Fate’s neglected child!Mild be the doom of Heaven—as thou wert mild!For oh! thy heart in holy mould was cast,And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last.Poor lost Alonzo! still I seem to hearThe clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier!When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drowned,Thy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground!Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,But leave—oh! leave the light ofHopebehind!What though my wingèd hours of bliss have been,Like angel-visits, few and far between,Her musing mood shall every pang appease,And charm—when pleasures lose the power to please!Yes; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee:Close not the light of Fortune’s stormy sea—Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love’s propitious smile,Chase every care, and charm a little while,Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ,And all her strings are harmonised to joy!—But why so short is Love’s delighted hour?Why fades the dew on Beauty’s sweetest flower?Why can no hymnèd charm of music healThe sleepless woes impassioned spirits feel?Can Fancy’s fairy hands no veil create,To hide the sad realities of fate?—No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule,Nor all the pride of Wisdom’s worldly school,Have power to soothe, unaided and alone,The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone!When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls,Fleet as the meteor o’er the desert falls;When, ’reft of all, yon widowed sire appearsA lonely hermit in the vale of years;Say, can the world one joyous thought bestowTo Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe?No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu,—Souls of impassioned mould, she speaks to you!Weep not, she says, at Nature’s transient pain,Congenial spirits part to meet again!What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew,What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu,—Daughter of Conrad! when he heard his knell,And bade his country and his child farewell!Doomed the long isles of Sydney-cove to see,The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee.Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart,And thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part;Thrice from his trembling lips he murmured lowThe plaint that owned unutterable woe;Till Faith, prevailing o’er his sullen doom,As bursts the morn on night’s unfathomed gloom,Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime,Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time!“And weep not thus,” he cried, “young Ellenore,My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more!Short shall this half-extinguished spirit burn,And soon these limbs to kindred dust return!But not, my child, with life’s precarious fire,The immortal ties of Nature shall expire;These shall resist the triumph of decay,When time is o’er, and worlds have passed away!Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie,But that which warmed it once shall never die!That spark unburied in its mortal frame,With living light, eternal, and the same,Shall beam on Joy’s interminable years,Unveiled by darkness—unassuaged by tears!“Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep,One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep;But when I gain the home without a friend,And press the uneasy couch where none attend,This last embrace, still cherished in my heart,Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part;Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh,And hush the groan of life’s last agony!“Farewell! when strangers lift thy father’s bier,And place my nameless stone without a tear;When each returning pledge hath told my childThat Conrad’s tomb is on the desert piled;And when the dream of troubled Fancy seesIts lonely rank grass waving in the breeze;Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o’er?Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore?Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide,Scorned by the world, to factious guilt allied?Ah! no; methinks the generous and the goodWill woo thee from the shades of solitude!O’er friendless grief compassion shall awake,And smile on innocence, for Mercy’s sake!”Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be,The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee!If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell,If that faint murmur be the last farewell,If Fate unite the faithful but to part,Why is their memory sacred to the heart?Why does the brother of my childhood seemRestored a while in every pleasing dream?Why do I joy the lonely spot to view,By artless friendship blessed when life was new?EternalHope! when yonder spheres sublimePealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,Thy joyous youth began—but not to fade.—When all the sister planets have decayed;When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,And Heaven’s last thunder shakes the world below;Thou, undismayed, shalt o’er the ruins smile,And light thy torch at Nature’s funeral pile.

In joyous youth, what soul hath never known

Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own?

Who hath not paused while Beauty’s pensive eye

Asked from his heart the homage of a sigh?

Who hath not owned, with rapture-smitten frame,

The power of grace, the magic of a name?

There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow,Cold as the rocks on Torneo’s hoary brow;There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed,In self-adoring pride securely mailed:—But, triumph not, ye peace-enamoured few!Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you!For you no fancy consecrates the sceneWhere rapture uttered vows, and wept between;’Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet;No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!

There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow,

Cold as the rocks on Torneo’s hoary brow;

There be, whose loveless wisdom never failed,

In self-adoring pride securely mailed:—

But, triumph not, ye peace-enamoured few!

Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you!

For you no fancy consecrates the scene

Where rapture uttered vows, and wept between;

’Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet;

No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet!

Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed,The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead?No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy,And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy!And say, without our hopes, without our fears,Without the home that plighted love endears,Without the smile from partial beauty won,Oh! what were man?—a world without a sun.

Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed,

The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead?

No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy,

And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy!

And say, without our hopes, without our fears,

Without the home that plighted love endears,

Without the smile from partial beauty won,

Oh! what were man?—a world without a sun.

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,There dwelt no joy in Eden’s rosy bower!In vain the viewless seraph lingering there,At starry midnight charmed the silent air:In vain the wild bird carolled on the steep,To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep;In vain, to soothe, the solitary shade,Aërial notes in mingling measure played;The summer wind that shook the spangled tree,The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;—Still slowly passed the melancholy day,And still the stranger wist not where to stray.The world was sad!—the garden was a wild!And man, the hermit, sighed—till woman smiled!

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,

There dwelt no joy in Eden’s rosy bower!

In vain the viewless seraph lingering there,

At starry midnight charmed the silent air:

In vain the wild bird carolled on the steep,

To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep;

In vain, to soothe, the solitary shade,

Aërial notes in mingling measure played;

The summer wind that shook the spangled tree,

The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee;—

Still slowly passed the melancholy day,

And still the stranger wist not where to stray.

The world was sad!—the garden was a wild!

And man, the hermit, sighed—till woman smiled!

True, the sad power to generous hearts may bringDelirious anguish on his fiery wing;Barred from delight by Fate’s untimely hand,By wealthless lot, or pitiless command;Or doomed to gaze on beauties that adornThe smile of triumph or the frown of scorn;While Memory watches o’er the sad review,Of joys that faded like the morning dew;Peace may depart—and life and nature seemA barren path, a wildness, and a dream!

True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring

Delirious anguish on his fiery wing;

Barred from delight by Fate’s untimely hand,

By wealthless lot, or pitiless command;

Or doomed to gaze on beauties that adorn

The smile of triumph or the frown of scorn;

While Memory watches o’er the sad review,

Of joys that faded like the morning dew;

Peace may depart—and life and nature seem

A barren path, a wildness, and a dream!

But can the noble mind for ever brood,The willing victim of a weary mood,On heartless cares that squander life away,And cloud young Genius brightening into day?—Shame to the coward thought that e’er betrayedThe noon of manhood to a myrtle shade![21]—IfHope’screative spirit cannot raiseOne trophy sacred to thy future days,Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrineOf hopeless love to murmur and repine!But, should a sigh of milder mood expressThy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness,Should Heaven’s fair harbinger delight to pourHer blissful visions on thy pensive hour,No tear to blot thy memory’s pictured pageNo fears but such as fancy can assuage;Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may missThe peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss,(For love pursues an ever-devious race,True to the winding lineaments of grace;)Yet still may hope her talisman employTo snatch from Heaven anticipated joy,And all her kindred energies impartThat burn the brightest in the purest heart.

But can the noble mind for ever brood,

The willing victim of a weary mood,

On heartless cares that squander life away,

And cloud young Genius brightening into day?—

Shame to the coward thought that e’er betrayed

The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade![21]—

IfHope’screative spirit cannot raise

One trophy sacred to thy future days,

Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine

Of hopeless love to murmur and repine!

But, should a sigh of milder mood express

Thy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness,

Should Heaven’s fair harbinger delight to pour

Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour,

No tear to blot thy memory’s pictured page

No fears but such as fancy can assuage;

Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss

The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss,

(For love pursues an ever-devious race,

True to the winding lineaments of grace;)

Yet still may hope her talisman employ

To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy,

And all her kindred energies impart

That burn the brightest in the purest heart.

When first the Rhodian’s mimic art arrayedThe queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade,The happy master mingled on his pieceEach look that charmed him in the fair of Greece.To faultless nature true, he stole a graceFrom every finer form and sweeter face;And as he sojourned on the Ægean isles,Woo’d all their love, and treasured all their smiles;Then glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined,And mortal charms seemed heavenly when combinedLove on the picture smiled! Expression pouredHer mingling spirit there—and Greece adored!

When first the Rhodian’s mimic art arrayed

The queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade,

The happy master mingled on his piece

Each look that charmed him in the fair of Greece.

To faultless nature true, he stole a grace

From every finer form and sweeter face;

And as he sojourned on the Ægean isles,

Woo’d all their love, and treasured all their smiles;

Then glowed the tints, pure, precious, and refined,

And mortal charms seemed heavenly when combined

Love on the picture smiled! Expression poured

Her mingling spirit there—and Greece adored!

So thy fair hand, enamoured Fancy! gleansThe treasured pictures of a thousand scenes;Thy pencil traces on the lover’s thoughtSome cottage-home, from towns and toil remote,Where love and lore may claim alternate hours,With Peace embosom’d in Idalian bowers!Remote from busy Life’s bewildered way,O’er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway!Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore,With hermit steps to wander and adore!There shall he love, when genial morn appears,Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears,To watch the brightening roses of the sky,And muse on Nature with a poet’s eye!—And when the sun’s last splendour lights the deep,The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep;When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail,And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale,His path shall be where streamy mountains swellTheir shadowy grandeur o’er the narrow dell,Where mouldering piles and forests intervene,Mingling with darker tints the living green:No circling hills his ravished eye to bound,Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around.

So thy fair hand, enamoured Fancy! gleans

The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes;

Thy pencil traces on the lover’s thought

Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote,

Where love and lore may claim alternate hours,

With Peace embosom’d in Idalian bowers!

Remote from busy Life’s bewildered way,

O’er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway!

Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore,

With hermit steps to wander and adore!

There shall he love, when genial morn appears,

Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears,

To watch the brightening roses of the sky,

And muse on Nature with a poet’s eye!—

And when the sun’s last splendour lights the deep,

The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep;

When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail,

And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale,

His path shall be where streamy mountains swell

Their shadowy grandeur o’er the narrow dell,

Where mouldering piles and forests intervene,

Mingling with darker tints the living green:

No circling hills his ravished eye to bound,

Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around.

The moon is up—the watch-tower dimly burns—And down the vale his sober step returns;But pauses oft, as winding rocks conveyThe still sweet fall of music far away;And oft he lingers from his home a whileTo watch the dying notes!—and start, and smile!

The moon is up—the watch-tower dimly burns—

And down the vale his sober step returns;

But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey

The still sweet fall of music far away;

And oft he lingers from his home a while

To watch the dying notes!—and start, and smile!

Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweepThe darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep!Though boundless snows the withered heath deformAnd the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm,Yet shall the smile of social love repay,With mental light, the melancholy day!And, when its short and sullen noon is o’er,The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore,How bright the faggots in his little hallBlaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!

Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweep

The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep!

Though boundless snows the withered heath deform

And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm,

Yet shall the smile of social love repay,

With mental light, the melancholy day!

And, when its short and sullen noon is o’er,

The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore,

How bright the faggots in his little hall

Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!

How blest he names, in Love’s familiar tone,The kind, fair friend, by nature marked his own;And, in the waveless mirror of his mind,Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,Since Anna’s empire o’er his heart began!Since first he called her his before the holy man!

How blest he names, in Love’s familiar tone,

The kind, fair friend, by nature marked his own;

And, in the waveless mirror of his mind,

Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,

Since Anna’s empire o’er his heart began!

Since first he called her his before the holy man!

Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome,And light the wintry paradise of home!And let the half-uncurtained window hailSome way-worn man benighted in the vale!Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high,As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky,While fiery hosts in Heaven’s wide circle play,And bathe in lurid light the milky-way,Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower,Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour—With pathos shall command, with wit beguile,A generous tear of anguish, or a smile—Thy woes, Arion![22]and thy simple tale,O’er all the heart shall triumph and prevail!Charmed as they read the verse too sadly true,How gallant Albert, and his weary crew,Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save,And toiled—and shrieked—and perished on the wave!

Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome,

And light the wintry paradise of home!

And let the half-uncurtained window hail

Some way-worn man benighted in the vale!

Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high,

As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky,

While fiery hosts in Heaven’s wide circle play,

And bathe in lurid light the milky-way,

Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower,

Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour—

With pathos shall command, with wit beguile,

A generous tear of anguish, or a smile—

Thy woes, Arion![22]and thy simple tale,

O’er all the heart shall triumph and prevail!

Charmed as they read the verse too sadly true,

How gallant Albert, and his weary crew,

Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save,

And toiled—and shrieked—and perished on the wave!

Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna’s steep,The seaman’s cry was heard along the deep;There, on his funeral waters, dark and wild,The dying father blessed his darling child!“Oh! Mercy, shield her innocence,” he cried,Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died!

Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna’s steep,

The seaman’s cry was heard along the deep;

There, on his funeral waters, dark and wild,

The dying father blessed his darling child!

“Oh! Mercy, shield her innocence,” he cried,

Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died!

Or they will learn how generous worth sublimesThe robber Moor,[23]and pleads for all his crimes!How poor Amelia kissed, with many a tear,His hand blood-stained, but ever, ever dear!Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord,And wept and prayed perdition from his sword!Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cryThe strings of Nature cracked with agony!He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled,And burst the ties that bound him to the world!

Or they will learn how generous worth sublimes

The robber Moor,[23]and pleads for all his crimes!

How poor Amelia kissed, with many a tear,

His hand blood-stained, but ever, ever dear!

Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord,

And wept and prayed perdition from his sword!

Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cry

The strings of Nature cracked with agony!

He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurled,

And burst the ties that bound him to the world!

Turn from his dying words, that smite with steelThe shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel—Turn to the gentler melodies that suitThalia’s harp, or Pan’s Arcadian lute;Or, down the stream of Truth’s historic page,From clime to clime descend, from age to age!

Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel

The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel—

Turn to the gentler melodies that suit

Thalia’s harp, or Pan’s Arcadian lute;

Or, down the stream of Truth’s historic page,

From clime to clime descend, from age to age!

Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrudeThan Fancy fashions in her wildest mood;There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rateWhat millions died—that Cæsar might be great![24]Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore,Marched by their Charles[25]to Dneiper’s swampy shore;Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast,The Swedish soldier sunk—and groaned his last!File after file the stormy showers benumb,Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum!Horseman and horse confessed the bitter pang,And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang!Yet, ere he sunk in Nature’s last repose,Ere life’s warm torrent to the fountain froze,The dying man to Sweden turned his eye,Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh!Imperial Pride looked sullen on his plight,And Charles beheld—nor shuddered at the sight!

Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude

Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood;

There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rate

What millions died—that Cæsar might be great![24]

Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore,

Marched by their Charles[25]to Dneiper’s swampy shore;

Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast,

The Swedish soldier sunk—and groaned his last!

File after file the stormy showers benumb,

Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum!

Horseman and horse confessed the bitter pang,

And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang!

Yet, ere he sunk in Nature’s last repose,

Ere life’s warm torrent to the fountain froze,

The dying man to Sweden turned his eye,

Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh!

Imperial Pride looked sullen on his plight,

And Charles beheld—nor shuddered at the sight!

Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky,Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie,AndHopeattends, companion of the way,Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day!In yonder pensile orb, and every sphereThat gems the starry girdle of the year;In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell,Pure from their God, created millions dwell,Whose names and natures, unrevealed below,We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know;For, as Iona’s saint,[26]a giant form,Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm(When o’er each Runic altar, weed-entwined,The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,)Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoarFrom Kilda to the green Ierne’s shore;So, when thy pure and renovated mindThis perishable dust hath left behind,Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train,Like distant isles embosomed in the main;Rapt to the shrine where motion first began,And light and life in mingling torrent ran;From whence each bright rotundity was hurled,The throne of God,—the centre of the world!

Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky,

Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie,

AndHopeattends, companion of the way,

Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day!

In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere

That gems the starry girdle of the year;

In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell,

Pure from their God, created millions dwell,

Whose names and natures, unrevealed below,

We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know;

For, as Iona’s saint,[26]a giant form,

Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm

(When o’er each Runic altar, weed-entwined,

The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,)

Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar

From Kilda to the green Ierne’s shore;

So, when thy pure and renovated mind

This perishable dust hath left behind,

Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train,

Like distant isles embosomed in the main;

Rapt to the shrine where motion first began,

And light and life in mingling torrent ran;

From whence each bright rotundity was hurled,

The throne of God,—the centre of the world!

Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sungThat suasiveHopehath but a Syren tongue!True; she may sport with life’s untutored day,Nor heed the solace of its last decay,The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,And part, like Ajut—never to return![27]

Oh! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung

That suasiveHopehath but a Syren tongue!

True; she may sport with life’s untutored day,

Nor heed the solace of its last decay,

The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn,

And part, like Ajut—never to return![27]

But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuageThe grief and passions of our greener age,Though dull the close of life, and far awayEach flower that hailed the dawning of the day;Yet o’er her lovely hopes, that once were dear,The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe,With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill,And weep their falsehood, though she love them still!

But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage

The grief and passions of our greener age,

Though dull the close of life, and far away

Each flower that hailed the dawning of the day;

Yet o’er her lovely hopes, that once were dear,

The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe,

With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill,

And weep their falsehood, though she love them still!

Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled,The king of Judah mourned his rebel child!Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boySmiled on his sire, and filled his heart with joy!My Absalom! the voice of Nature cried:Oh! that for thee thy father could have died!For bloody was the deed, and rashly done,That slew my Absalom!—my son!—my son!

Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled,

The king of Judah mourned his rebel child!

Musing on days, when yet the guiltless boy

Smiled on his sire, and filled his heart with joy!

My Absalom! the voice of Nature cried:

Oh! that for thee thy father could have died!

For bloody was the deed, and rashly done,

That slew my Absalom!—my son!—my son!

UnfadingHope! when life’s last embers burn,When soul to soul, and dust to dust return!Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power!What though each spark of earth-born rapture flyThe quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!Bright to the soul thy seraph hands conveyThe morning dream of life’s eternal day—Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,And all the phœnix spirit burns within!

UnfadingHope! when life’s last embers burn,

When soul to soul, and dust to dust return!

Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!

Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power!

What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly

The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!

Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey

The morning dream of life’s eternal day—

Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,

And all the phœnix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,It is a dread and awful thing to die!Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun!Where Time’s far-wandering tide has never run,From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres,A warning comes, unheard by other ears.’Tis Heaven’s commanding trumpet, long and loud,Like Sinai’s thunder, pealing from the cloud!While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trodThe roaring waves, and call’d upon his God,With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,And shrieks, and hovers o’er the dark abyss!

Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,

The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!

Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh,

It is a dread and awful thing to die!

Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun!

Where Time’s far-wandering tide has never run,

From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres,

A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

’Tis Heaven’s commanding trumpet, long and loud,

Like Sinai’s thunder, pealing from the cloud!

While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,

The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;

And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod

The roaring waves, and call’d upon his God,

With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,

And shrieks, and hovers o’er the dark abyss!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illumeThe dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that rollCimmerian darkness on the parting soul!Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,Chased on his night-steed by the star of day.The strife is o’er—the pangs of Nature close,And life’s last rapture triumphs o’er her woes.Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hailBethlehem’s shepherds in the lonely vale,When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight stillWatched on the holy towers of Zion hill!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume

The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb;

Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll

Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul!

Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,

Chased on his night-steed by the star of day.

The strife is o’er—the pangs of Nature close,

And life’s last rapture triumphs o’er her woes.

Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,

The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,

On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,

Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;

Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail

Bethlehem’s shepherds in the lonely vale,

When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still

Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill!

Soul of the just! companion of the dead!Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled?Back to its heavenly source thy being goes,Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose;Doomed on his airy path a while to burn,And doomed, like thee, to travel, and return.—Hark! from the world’s exploding centre driven,With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven,Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,On bickering wheels, and adamantine car;From planet whirled to planet more remote,He visits realms beyond the reach of thought,But wheeling homeward, when his course is run,Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!So hath the traveller of earth unfurledHer trembling wings, emerging from the world;And o’er the path by mortal never trod,Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God!

Soul of the just! companion of the dead!

Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled?

Back to its heavenly source thy being goes,

Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose;

Doomed on his airy path a while to burn,

And doomed, like thee, to travel, and return.—

Hark! from the world’s exploding centre driven,

With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven,

Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,

On bickering wheels, and adamantine car;

From planet whirled to planet more remote,

He visits realms beyond the reach of thought,

But wheeling homeward, when his course is run,

Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!

So hath the traveller of earth unfurled

Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;

And o’er the path by mortal never trod,

Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God!

Oh! lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse,One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance,Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;Who, mouldering earthward, ’reft of every trust,In joyless union wedded to the dust,Could all his parting energy dismiss,And call this barren world sufficient bliss?—There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien,Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene,Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day,Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,Frail as the leaf in Autumn’s yellow bower,Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower;A friendless slave, a child without a sire,Whose mortal life and momentary fire,Lights to the grave his chance-created form,As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;And, when the gun’s tremendous flash is o’er,To night and silence sink for evermore!—

Oh! lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse,

One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance,

Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,

The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;

Who, mouldering earthward, ’reft of every trust,

In joyless union wedded to the dust,

Could all his parting energy dismiss,

And call this barren world sufficient bliss?—

There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien,

Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene,

Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of a day,

Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,

Frail as the leaf in Autumn’s yellow bower,

Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower;

A friendless slave, a child without a sire,

Whose mortal life and momentary fire,

Lights to the grave his chance-created form,

As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;

And, when the gun’s tremendous flash is o’er,

To night and silence sink for evermore!—

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame?Is this your triumph—this your proud applause,Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?For this hath Science searched, on weary wing,By shore and sea—each mute and living thing!Launched with Iberia’s pilot[28]from the steep,To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep?Or round the cope her living chariot driven,And wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven?Oh! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there,To waft us home the message of despair?Then bind the palm, thy sage’s brow to suit,Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit!Ah me! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears,Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow’s tears,Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,As waves the night-shade round the sceptic’s head.What is the bigot’s torch, the tyrant’s chain?I smile on death, if heavenwardHoperemain!But, if the warring winds of Nature’s strifeBe all the faithless charter of my life,If Chance awaked, inexorable power,This frail and feverish being of an hour;Doomed o’er the world’s precarious scene to sweep,Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,To know Delight but by her parting smile,And toil, and wish, and weep a little while;Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vainThis troubled pulse, and visionary brain!Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom,And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb!Truth, ever lovely,—since the world began,The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man,—How can thy words from balmy slumber startReposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart!Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled,And that were true which Nature never told,Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field;No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed!Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,The doom that bars us from a better fate;But, sad as angels for the good man’s sin,Weep to record, and blush to give it in!

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,

Lights of the world, and demi-gods of Fame?

Is this your triumph—this your proud applause,

Children of Truth, and champions of her cause?

For this hath Science searched, on weary wing,

By shore and sea—each mute and living thing!

Launched with Iberia’s pilot[28]from the steep,

To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep?

Or round the cope her living chariot driven,

And wheeled in triumph through the signs of Heaven?

Oh! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there,

To waft us home the message of despair?

Then bind the palm, thy sage’s brow to suit,

Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit!

Ah me! the laurelled wreath that Murder rears,

Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow’s tears,

Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,

As waves the night-shade round the sceptic’s head.

What is the bigot’s torch, the tyrant’s chain?

I smile on death, if heavenwardHoperemain!

But, if the warring winds of Nature’s strife

Be all the faithless charter of my life,

If Chance awaked, inexorable power,

This frail and feverish being of an hour;

Doomed o’er the world’s precarious scene to sweep,

Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,

To know Delight but by her parting smile,

And toil, and wish, and weep a little while;

Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain

This troubled pulse, and visionary brain!

Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom,

And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb!

Truth, ever lovely,—since the world began,

The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man,—

How can thy words from balmy slumber start

Reposing Virtue, pillowed on the heart!

Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled,

And that were true which Nature never told,

Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field;

No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed!

Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,

The doom that bars us from a better fate;

But, sad as angels for the good man’s sin,

Weep to record, and blush to give it in!

And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay,Pause at her martyr’s tomb, and read the lay.Down by the wilds of yon deserted valeIt darkly hints a melancholy tale!There, as the homeless madman sits alone,In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan!And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds,When the Moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds.Poor lost Alonzo! Fate’s neglected child!Mild be the doom of Heaven—as thou wert mild!For oh! thy heart in holy mould was cast,And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last.Poor lost Alonzo! still I seem to hearThe clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier!When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drowned,Thy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground!

And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay,

Pause at her martyr’s tomb, and read the lay.

Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale

It darkly hints a melancholy tale!

There, as the homeless madman sits alone,

In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan!

And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds,

When the Moon lights her watch-tower in the clouds.

Poor lost Alonzo! Fate’s neglected child!

Mild be the doom of Heaven—as thou wert mild!

For oh! thy heart in holy mould was cast,

And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last.

Poor lost Alonzo! still I seem to hear

The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier!

When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drowned,

Thy midnight rites, but not on hallowed ground!

Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,But leave—oh! leave the light ofHopebehind!What though my wingèd hours of bliss have been,Like angel-visits, few and far between,Her musing mood shall every pang appease,And charm—when pleasures lose the power to please!Yes; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee:Close not the light of Fortune’s stormy sea—Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love’s propitious smile,Chase every care, and charm a little while,Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ,And all her strings are harmonised to joy!—But why so short is Love’s delighted hour?Why fades the dew on Beauty’s sweetest flower?Why can no hymnèd charm of music healThe sleepless woes impassioned spirits feel?Can Fancy’s fairy hands no veil create,To hide the sad realities of fate?—

Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,

But leave—oh! leave the light ofHopebehind!

What though my wingèd hours of bliss have been,

Like angel-visits, few and far between,

Her musing mood shall every pang appease,

And charm—when pleasures lose the power to please!

Yes; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee:

Close not the light of Fortune’s stormy sea—

Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love’s propitious smile,

Chase every care, and charm a little while,

Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ,

And all her strings are harmonised to joy!—

But why so short is Love’s delighted hour?

Why fades the dew on Beauty’s sweetest flower?

Why can no hymnèd charm of music heal

The sleepless woes impassioned spirits feel?

Can Fancy’s fairy hands no veil create,

To hide the sad realities of fate?—

No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule,Nor all the pride of Wisdom’s worldly school,Have power to soothe, unaided and alone,The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone!When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls,Fleet as the meteor o’er the desert falls;When, ’reft of all, yon widowed sire appearsA lonely hermit in the vale of years;Say, can the world one joyous thought bestowTo Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe?No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu,—Souls of impassioned mould, she speaks to you!Weep not, she says, at Nature’s transient pain,Congenial spirits part to meet again!

No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule,

Nor all the pride of Wisdom’s worldly school,

Have power to soothe, unaided and alone,

The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone!

When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls,

Fleet as the meteor o’er the desert falls;

When, ’reft of all, yon widowed sire appears

A lonely hermit in the vale of years;

Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow

To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe?

No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu,—

Souls of impassioned mould, she speaks to you!

Weep not, she says, at Nature’s transient pain,

Congenial spirits part to meet again!

What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew,What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu,—Daughter of Conrad! when he heard his knell,And bade his country and his child farewell!Doomed the long isles of Sydney-cove to see,The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee.Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart,And thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part;Thrice from his trembling lips he murmured lowThe plaint that owned unutterable woe;Till Faith, prevailing o’er his sullen doom,As bursts the morn on night’s unfathomed gloom,Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime,Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time!

What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew,

What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu,—

Daughter of Conrad! when he heard his knell,

And bade his country and his child farewell!

Doomed the long isles of Sydney-cove to see,

The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee.

Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart,

And thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part;

Thrice from his trembling lips he murmured low

The plaint that owned unutterable woe;

Till Faith, prevailing o’er his sullen doom,

As bursts the morn on night’s unfathomed gloom,

Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime,

Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time!

“And weep not thus,” he cried, “young Ellenore,My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more!Short shall this half-extinguished spirit burn,And soon these limbs to kindred dust return!But not, my child, with life’s precarious fire,The immortal ties of Nature shall expire;These shall resist the triumph of decay,When time is o’er, and worlds have passed away!Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie,But that which warmed it once shall never die!That spark unburied in its mortal frame,With living light, eternal, and the same,Shall beam on Joy’s interminable years,Unveiled by darkness—unassuaged by tears!

“And weep not thus,” he cried, “young Ellenore,

My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more!

Short shall this half-extinguished spirit burn,

And soon these limbs to kindred dust return!

But not, my child, with life’s precarious fire,

The immortal ties of Nature shall expire;

These shall resist the triumph of decay,

When time is o’er, and worlds have passed away!

Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie,

But that which warmed it once shall never die!

That spark unburied in its mortal frame,

With living light, eternal, and the same,

Shall beam on Joy’s interminable years,

Unveiled by darkness—unassuaged by tears!

“Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep,One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep;But when I gain the home without a friend,And press the uneasy couch where none attend,This last embrace, still cherished in my heart,Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part;Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh,And hush the groan of life’s last agony!

“Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep,

One tedious watch is Conrad doomed to weep;

But when I gain the home without a friend,

And press the uneasy couch where none attend,

This last embrace, still cherished in my heart,

Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part;

Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh,

And hush the groan of life’s last agony!

“Farewell! when strangers lift thy father’s bier,And place my nameless stone without a tear;When each returning pledge hath told my childThat Conrad’s tomb is on the desert piled;And when the dream of troubled Fancy seesIts lonely rank grass waving in the breeze;Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o’er?Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore?Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide,Scorned by the world, to factious guilt allied?Ah! no; methinks the generous and the goodWill woo thee from the shades of solitude!O’er friendless grief compassion shall awake,And smile on innocence, for Mercy’s sake!”

“Farewell! when strangers lift thy father’s bier,

And place my nameless stone without a tear;

When each returning pledge hath told my child

That Conrad’s tomb is on the desert piled;

And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees

Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze;

Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o’er?

Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore?

Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide,

Scorned by the world, to factious guilt allied?

Ah! no; methinks the generous and the good

Will woo thee from the shades of solitude!

O’er friendless grief compassion shall awake,

And smile on innocence, for Mercy’s sake!”

Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be,The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee!If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell,If that faint murmur be the last farewell,If Fate unite the faithful but to part,Why is their memory sacred to the heart?Why does the brother of my childhood seemRestored a while in every pleasing dream?Why do I joy the lonely spot to view,By artless friendship blessed when life was new?

Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be,

The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee!

If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell,

If that faint murmur be the last farewell,

If Fate unite the faithful but to part,

Why is their memory sacred to the heart?

Why does the brother of my childhood seem

Restored a while in every pleasing dream?

Why do I joy the lonely spot to view,

By artless friendship blessed when life was new?

EternalHope! when yonder spheres sublimePealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,Thy joyous youth began—but not to fade.—When all the sister planets have decayed;When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,And Heaven’s last thunder shakes the world below;Thou, undismayed, shalt o’er the ruins smile,And light thy torch at Nature’s funeral pile.

EternalHope! when yonder spheres sublime

Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,

Thy joyous youth began—but not to fade.—

When all the sister planets have decayed;

When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,

And Heaven’s last thunder shakes the world below;

Thou, undismayed, shalt o’er the ruins smile,

And light thy torch at Nature’s funeral pile.

[21]“Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade.”—Dryden.[22]Falconer, who calls himself Arion in “The Shipwreck” (Canto III.)[23]See Schiller’s tragedy of “The Robbers,” Scene 5.[24]The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Cæsar has been usually estimated at two millions of men.[25]Charles XII., of Sweden.—See Notes.[26]See Notes.[27]See “Rambler.”[28]Columbus.

[21]“Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade.”—Dryden.

[22]Falconer, who calls himself Arion in “The Shipwreck” (Canto III.)

[23]See Schiller’s tragedy of “The Robbers,” Scene 5.

[24]The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Cæsar has been usually estimated at two millions of men.

[25]Charles XII., of Sweden.—See Notes.

[26]See Notes.

[27]See “Rambler.”

[28]Columbus.

Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and Incidents of the following Poem are connected with that event. The testimonies of historians and travellers concur in describing the infant colony as one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an evil hour, the junction of European with Indian arms, converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. Mr.Isaac Weldinforms us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration, were still preserved by the recent inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796.

I.On Susquehana’s side, fair Wyoming!Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wallAnd roofless homes, a sad remembrance bringOf what thy gentle people did befall;Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of allThat see the Atlantic wave their morn restore.Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall,And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore,Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania’s shore!II.Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies,The happy shepherd swains had nought to doBut feed their flocks on green declivities,Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe,From morn till evening’s sweeter pastime grew,With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown,Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew;And aye those sunny mountains half-way downWould echo flageolet from some romantic town.III.Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takesHis leave, how might you the flamingo seeDisporting like a meteor on the lakes—And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree:And every sound of life was full of glee,From merry mock-bird’s song,[29]or hum of men;While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry,The wild-deer arched his neck from glades, and thenUnhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.IV.And scarce had Wyoming of war or crimeHeard, but in transatlantic story rung,For here the exile met from every clime,And spoke in friendship every distant tongue:Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung,Were but divided by the running brook;And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung,On plains no sieging mine’s volcano shook,The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook.V.Nor far some Andalusian sarabandWould sound to many a native roundelay—But who is he that yet a dearer landRemembers over hills and far away?Green Albin![30]what though he no more surveyThy ships at anchor on the quiet shore,Thy pellochs[31]rolling from the mountain bay,Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor,And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar![32]VI.Alas! poor Caledonia’s mountaineer,That want’s stern edict e’er, and feudal grief,Had forced him from a home he loved so dear!Yet found he here a home, and glad relief,And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf,That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee:And England sent her men, of men the chief,Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be,To plant the tree of life,—to plant fair Freedom’s tree!VII.Here was not mingled in the city’s pompOf life’s extremes the grandeur and the gloom;Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp,Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature’s doom,Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb.One venerable man, beloved of all,Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom,To sway the strife, that seldom might befall:And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall.VIII.How reverend was the look, serenely aged,He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire,Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged,Undimmed by weakness’ shade, or turbid ire!And though, amidst the calm of thought entire,Some high and haughty features might betrayA soul impetuous once, ’twas earthly fireThat fled composure’s intellectual ray,As Etna’s fires grow dim before the rising day.IX.I boast no song in magic wonders rife,But yet, oh, Nature! is there nought to prize,Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?And dwells in daylight truth’s salubrious skiesNo form with which the soul may sympathise?—Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mildThe parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,Or blest his noonday walk—she was his only child.X.The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude’s cheek—What though these shades had seen her birth, her sireA Briton’s independence taught to seekFar western worlds; and there his household fireThe light of social love did long inspire,And many a halcyon day he lived to seeUnbroken but by one misfortune dire,When fate had reft his mutual heart—but sheWas gone—and Gertrude climbed a widowed father’s knee.XI.A loved bequest,—and I may half impart—To them that feel the strong paternal tie,How like a new existence to his heartThat living flower uprose beneath his eye,Dear as she was from cherub infancy,From hours when she would round his garden play,To time when as the ripening years went by,Her lovely mind could culture well repay,And more engaging grew; from pleasing day to day.XII.I may not paint those thousand infant charms;(Unconscious fascination, undesigned!)The orison repeated in his arms,For God to bless her sire and all mankind;The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con,(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind:)All uncompanioned else her heart had goneTill now, in Gertrude’s eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.XIII.And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour,When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent,An Indian from his bark approach their bower,Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament;[33]The red wild feathers on his brow were blent,And bracelets bound the arm that helped to lightA boy, who seemed, as he beside him went,Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright,Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night.XIV.Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young—The dimple from his polished cheek had fled;When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung,The Oneyda warrior to the planter said,And laid his hand upon the stripling’s head,“Peace be to thee! my words this belt[34]approve;The paths of peace my steps have hither led:[33]This little nursling, take him to thy love,And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove.XV.“Christian! I am the foeman of thy foe;Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace:[33]Upon the Michigan, three moons ago,We launched our pirogues for the bison chase,And with the Hurons planted for a space,With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk;But snakes are in the bosoms of their race,And though they held with us a friendly talk,The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk.XVI.“It was encamping on the lake’s far port,A cry of Areouski[35]broke our sleep,Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation’s fort,And rapid, rapid whoops came o’er the deep;But long thy country’s war-sign on the steepAppeared through ghastly intervals of light,And deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep,Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight,As if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery fight.XVII.“It slept—it rose again—on high their towerSprung upwards like a torch to light the skiesThen down again it rained an ember shower,And louder lamentations heard we rise:As when the evil Manitou[36]that driesThe Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire,In vain the desolated panther flies,And howls amidst his wilderness of fire:Alas! too late, we reached and smote those Hurons dire!XVIII.“But as the fox beneath the nobler hound,So died their warriors by our battle-brand;And from the tree we, with her child, unboundA lonely mother of the Christian land:—Her lord—the captain of the British band—Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay.Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand;Upon her child she sobbed, and swooned away,Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Christians pray.XIX.“Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowlsOf fever-balm and sweet sagamité:[37]But she was journeying to the land of souls,And lifted up her dying head to prayThat we should bid an ancient friend conveyHer orphan to his home of England’s shore;—And take, she said, this token far away,To one that will remember us of yore,When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave’s Julia wore.XX.“And I, the eagle of my tribe,[38]have rushedWith this lorn dove.”—A sage’s self-commandHad quelled the tears from Albert’s heart that gushed;But yet his cheek—his agitated hand—That showered upon the stranger of the landNo common boon, in grief but ill beguiledA soul that was not wont to be unmanned;“And stay,” he cried, “dear pilgrim of the wild,Preserver of my old, my boon companion’s child!—XXI.“Child of a race whose name my bosom warms,On earth’s remotest bounds how welcome here?Whose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms,Young as thyself, and innocently dear,Whose grandsire was my early life’s compeer.Ah, happiest home of England’s happy clime!How beautiful e’en now thy scenes appear,As in the noon and sunshine of my prime!How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time!XXII.“And, Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude now,Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore?Or thought I, in thy father’s house, when thouWert lightest hearted on his festive floor,And first of all at his hospitable doorTo meet and kiss me at my journey’s end?But where was I when Waldegrave was no more?And thou didst pale thy gentle head extendIn woes, that e’en the tribe of deserts was thy friend?”XXIII.He said—and strained unto his heart the boy;—Far differently, the mute Oneyda took[39]His calumet of peace, and cup of joy;[40]As monumental bronze unchanged his look;A soul that pity touched, but never shook;Trained from his tree-rocked cradle[41]to his bierThe fierce extremes of good and ill to brookImpassive[39]—fearing but the shame of fear—A stoic of the woods—a man without a tear.XXIV.Yet deem not goodness on the savage stockOf Outalissi’s heart disdained to grow;As lives the oak unwithered on the rockBy storms above, and barrenness below;He scorned his own, who felt another’s woe:And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung,Or laced his moccasins,[42]in act to go,A song of parting to the boy he sung,Who slept on Albert’s couch, nor heard his friendly tongue.XXV.“Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming landShouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet.[39]Oh! tell her spirit, that the white man’s handHath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet;While I in lonely wilderness shall greetThy little foot-prints—or by traces knowThe fountain, where at noon I thought it sweetTo feed thee with the quarry of my bow,And poured the lotus-horn,[43]or slew the mountain roe.XXVI.“Adieu! sweet scion of the rising sun!But should affliction’s storms thy blossom mockThen come again—my own adopted one!And I will graft thee on a noble stock:The crocodile, the condor of the rock,[44]Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars;And I will teach thee, in the battle’s shock,To pay with Huron blood thy father’s scars,And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars!”XXVII.So finished he the rhyme (howe’er uncouth)That true to nature’s fervid feelings ran;(And song is but the eloquence of truth:)Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man;[44]But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey’s planIn woods required, whose trainèd eye was keenAs eagle of the wilderness, to scanHis path, by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine,Or ken far friendly huts on good savannahs green.XXVIII.Old Albert saw him from the valley’s side—His pirogue launched—his pilgrimage begun—Far, like the red-bird’s wing he seemed to glide;Then dived, and vanished in the woodlands dun.Oft, to that spot by tender memory won,Would Albert climb the promontory’s height,If but a dim sail glimmered in the sun;But never more, to bless his longing sight,Was Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage bright.

On Susquehana’s side, fair Wyoming!

Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall

And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring

Of what thy gentle people did befall;

Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all

That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore.

Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall,

And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore,

Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania’s shore!

II.Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies,The happy shepherd swains had nought to doBut feed their flocks on green declivities,Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe,From morn till evening’s sweeter pastime grew,With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown,Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew;And aye those sunny mountains half-way downWould echo flageolet from some romantic town.

II.

Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies,

The happy shepherd swains had nought to do

But feed their flocks on green declivities,

Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe,

From morn till evening’s sweeter pastime grew,

With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown,

Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew;

And aye those sunny mountains half-way down

Would echo flageolet from some romantic town.

III.Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takesHis leave, how might you the flamingo seeDisporting like a meteor on the lakes—And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree:And every sound of life was full of glee,From merry mock-bird’s song,[29]or hum of men;While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry,The wild-deer arched his neck from glades, and thenUnhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.

III.

Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes

His leave, how might you the flamingo see

Disporting like a meteor on the lakes—

And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree:

And every sound of life was full of glee,

From merry mock-bird’s song,[29]or hum of men;

While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry,

The wild-deer arched his neck from glades, and then

Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.

IV.And scarce had Wyoming of war or crimeHeard, but in transatlantic story rung,For here the exile met from every clime,And spoke in friendship every distant tongue:Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung,Were but divided by the running brook;And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung,On plains no sieging mine’s volcano shook,The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook.

IV.

And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime

Heard, but in transatlantic story rung,

For here the exile met from every clime,

And spoke in friendship every distant tongue:

Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung,

Were but divided by the running brook;

And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung,

On plains no sieging mine’s volcano shook,

The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook.

V.Nor far some Andalusian sarabandWould sound to many a native roundelay—But who is he that yet a dearer landRemembers over hills and far away?Green Albin![30]what though he no more surveyThy ships at anchor on the quiet shore,Thy pellochs[31]rolling from the mountain bay,Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor,And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar![32]

Nor far some Andalusian saraband

Would sound to many a native roundelay—

But who is he that yet a dearer land

Remembers over hills and far away?

Green Albin![30]what though he no more survey

Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore,

Thy pellochs[31]rolling from the mountain bay,

Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor,

And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar![32]

VI.Alas! poor Caledonia’s mountaineer,That want’s stern edict e’er, and feudal grief,Had forced him from a home he loved so dear!Yet found he here a home, and glad relief,And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf,That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee:And England sent her men, of men the chief,Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be,To plant the tree of life,—to plant fair Freedom’s tree!

VI.

Alas! poor Caledonia’s mountaineer,

That want’s stern edict e’er, and feudal grief,

Had forced him from a home he loved so dear!

Yet found he here a home, and glad relief,

And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf,

That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee:

And England sent her men, of men the chief,

Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be,

To plant the tree of life,—to plant fair Freedom’s tree!

VII.Here was not mingled in the city’s pompOf life’s extremes the grandeur and the gloom;Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp,Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature’s doom,Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb.One venerable man, beloved of all,Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom,To sway the strife, that seldom might befall:And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall.

VII.

Here was not mingled in the city’s pomp

Of life’s extremes the grandeur and the gloom;

Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp,

Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature’s doom,

Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb.

One venerable man, beloved of all,

Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom,

To sway the strife, that seldom might befall:

And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall.

VIII.How reverend was the look, serenely aged,He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire,Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged,Undimmed by weakness’ shade, or turbid ire!And though, amidst the calm of thought entire,Some high and haughty features might betrayA soul impetuous once, ’twas earthly fireThat fled composure’s intellectual ray,As Etna’s fires grow dim before the rising day.

VIII.

How reverend was the look, serenely aged,

He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire,

Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged,

Undimmed by weakness’ shade, or turbid ire!

And though, amidst the calm of thought entire,

Some high and haughty features might betray

A soul impetuous once, ’twas earthly fire

That fled composure’s intellectual ray,

As Etna’s fires grow dim before the rising day.

IX.I boast no song in magic wonders rife,But yet, oh, Nature! is there nought to prize,Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?And dwells in daylight truth’s salubrious skiesNo form with which the soul may sympathise?—Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mildThe parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,Or blest his noonday walk—she was his only child.

IX.

I boast no song in magic wonders rife,

But yet, oh, Nature! is there nought to prize,

Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?

And dwells in daylight truth’s salubrious skies

No form with which the soul may sympathise?—

Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild

The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,

An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,

Or blest his noonday walk—she was his only child.

X.The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude’s cheek—What though these shades had seen her birth, her sireA Briton’s independence taught to seekFar western worlds; and there his household fireThe light of social love did long inspire,And many a halcyon day he lived to seeUnbroken but by one misfortune dire,When fate had reft his mutual heart—but sheWas gone—and Gertrude climbed a widowed father’s knee.

The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude’s cheek—

What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire

A Briton’s independence taught to seek

Far western worlds; and there his household fire

The light of social love did long inspire,

And many a halcyon day he lived to see

Unbroken but by one misfortune dire,

When fate had reft his mutual heart—but she

Was gone—and Gertrude climbed a widowed father’s knee.

XI.A loved bequest,—and I may half impart—To them that feel the strong paternal tie,How like a new existence to his heartThat living flower uprose beneath his eye,Dear as she was from cherub infancy,From hours when she would round his garden play,To time when as the ripening years went by,Her lovely mind could culture well repay,And more engaging grew; from pleasing day to day.

XI.

A loved bequest,—and I may half impart—

To them that feel the strong paternal tie,

How like a new existence to his heart

That living flower uprose beneath his eye,

Dear as she was from cherub infancy,

From hours when she would round his garden play,

To time when as the ripening years went by,

Her lovely mind could culture well repay,

And more engaging grew; from pleasing day to day.

XII.I may not paint those thousand infant charms;(Unconscious fascination, undesigned!)The orison repeated in his arms,For God to bless her sire and all mankind;The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con,(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind:)All uncompanioned else her heart had goneTill now, in Gertrude’s eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.

XII.

I may not paint those thousand infant charms;

(Unconscious fascination, undesigned!)

The orison repeated in his arms,

For God to bless her sire and all mankind;

The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,

Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con,

(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind:)

All uncompanioned else her heart had gone

Till now, in Gertrude’s eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.

XIII.And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour,When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent,An Indian from his bark approach their bower,Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament;[33]The red wild feathers on his brow were blent,And bracelets bound the arm that helped to lightA boy, who seemed, as he beside him went,Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright,Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night.

XIII.

And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour,

When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent,

An Indian from his bark approach their bower,

Of buskined limb, and swarthy lineament;[33]

The red wild feathers on his brow were blent,

And bracelets bound the arm that helped to light

A boy, who seemed, as he beside him went,

Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright,

Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night.

XIV.Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young—The dimple from his polished cheek had fled;When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung,The Oneyda warrior to the planter said,And laid his hand upon the stripling’s head,“Peace be to thee! my words this belt[34]approve;The paths of peace my steps have hither led:[33]This little nursling, take him to thy love,And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove.

XIV.

Yet pensive seemed the boy for one so young—

The dimple from his polished cheek had fled;

When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung,

The Oneyda warrior to the planter said,

And laid his hand upon the stripling’s head,

“Peace be to thee! my words this belt[34]approve;

The paths of peace my steps have hither led:[33]

This little nursling, take him to thy love,

And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove.

XV.“Christian! I am the foeman of thy foe;Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace:[33]Upon the Michigan, three moons ago,We launched our pirogues for the bison chase,And with the Hurons planted for a space,With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk;But snakes are in the bosoms of their race,And though they held with us a friendly talk,The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk.

XV.

“Christian! I am the foeman of thy foe;

Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace:[33]

Upon the Michigan, three moons ago,

We launched our pirogues for the bison chase,

And with the Hurons planted for a space,

With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk;

But snakes are in the bosoms of their race,

And though they held with us a friendly talk,

The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk.

XVI.“It was encamping on the lake’s far port,A cry of Areouski[35]broke our sleep,Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation’s fort,And rapid, rapid whoops came o’er the deep;But long thy country’s war-sign on the steepAppeared through ghastly intervals of light,And deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep,Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight,As if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery fight.

XVI.

“It was encamping on the lake’s far port,

A cry of Areouski[35]broke our sleep,

Where stormed an ambushed foe thy nation’s fort,

And rapid, rapid whoops came o’er the deep;

But long thy country’s war-sign on the steep

Appeared through ghastly intervals of light,

And deathfully their thunders seemed to sweep,

Till utter darkness swallowed up the sight,

As if a shower of blood had quenched the fiery fight.

XVII.“It slept—it rose again—on high their towerSprung upwards like a torch to light the skiesThen down again it rained an ember shower,And louder lamentations heard we rise:As when the evil Manitou[36]that driesThe Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire,In vain the desolated panther flies,And howls amidst his wilderness of fire:Alas! too late, we reached and smote those Hurons dire!

XVII.

“It slept—it rose again—on high their tower

Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies

Then down again it rained an ember shower,

And louder lamentations heard we rise:

As when the evil Manitou[36]that dries

The Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire,

In vain the desolated panther flies,

And howls amidst his wilderness of fire:

Alas! too late, we reached and smote those Hurons dire!

XVIII.“But as the fox beneath the nobler hound,So died their warriors by our battle-brand;And from the tree we, with her child, unboundA lonely mother of the Christian land:—Her lord—the captain of the British band—Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay.Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand;Upon her child she sobbed, and swooned away,Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Christians pray.

XVIII.

“But as the fox beneath the nobler hound,

So died their warriors by our battle-brand;

And from the tree we, with her child, unbound

A lonely mother of the Christian land:—

Her lord—the captain of the British band—

Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay.

Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand;

Upon her child she sobbed, and swooned away,

Or shrieked unto the God to whom the Christians pray.

XIX.“Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowlsOf fever-balm and sweet sagamité:[37]But she was journeying to the land of souls,And lifted up her dying head to prayThat we should bid an ancient friend conveyHer orphan to his home of England’s shore;—And take, she said, this token far away,To one that will remember us of yore,When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave’s Julia wore.

XIX.

“Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls

Of fever-balm and sweet sagamité:[37]

But she was journeying to the land of souls,

And lifted up her dying head to pray

That we should bid an ancient friend convey

Her orphan to his home of England’s shore;—

And take, she said, this token far away,

To one that will remember us of yore,

When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave’s Julia wore.

XX.“And I, the eagle of my tribe,[38]have rushedWith this lorn dove.”—A sage’s self-commandHad quelled the tears from Albert’s heart that gushed;But yet his cheek—his agitated hand—That showered upon the stranger of the landNo common boon, in grief but ill beguiledA soul that was not wont to be unmanned;“And stay,” he cried, “dear pilgrim of the wild,Preserver of my old, my boon companion’s child!—

XX.

“And I, the eagle of my tribe,[38]have rushed

With this lorn dove.”—A sage’s self-command

Had quelled the tears from Albert’s heart that gushed;

But yet his cheek—his agitated hand—

That showered upon the stranger of the land

No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled

A soul that was not wont to be unmanned;

“And stay,” he cried, “dear pilgrim of the wild,

Preserver of my old, my boon companion’s child!—

XXI.“Child of a race whose name my bosom warms,On earth’s remotest bounds how welcome here?Whose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms,Young as thyself, and innocently dear,Whose grandsire was my early life’s compeer.Ah, happiest home of England’s happy clime!How beautiful e’en now thy scenes appear,As in the noon and sunshine of my prime!How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time!

XXI.

“Child of a race whose name my bosom warms,

On earth’s remotest bounds how welcome here?

Whose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms,

Young as thyself, and innocently dear,

Whose grandsire was my early life’s compeer.

Ah, happiest home of England’s happy clime!

How beautiful e’en now thy scenes appear,

As in the noon and sunshine of my prime!

How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time!

XXII.“And, Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude now,Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore?Or thought I, in thy father’s house, when thouWert lightest hearted on his festive floor,And first of all at his hospitable doorTo meet and kiss me at my journey’s end?But where was I when Waldegrave was no more?And thou didst pale thy gentle head extendIn woes, that e’en the tribe of deserts was thy friend?”

XXII.

“And, Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude now,

Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore?

Or thought I, in thy father’s house, when thou

Wert lightest hearted on his festive floor,

And first of all at his hospitable door

To meet and kiss me at my journey’s end?

But where was I when Waldegrave was no more?

And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend

In woes, that e’en the tribe of deserts was thy friend?”

XXIII.He said—and strained unto his heart the boy;—Far differently, the mute Oneyda took[39]His calumet of peace, and cup of joy;[40]As monumental bronze unchanged his look;A soul that pity touched, but never shook;Trained from his tree-rocked cradle[41]to his bierThe fierce extremes of good and ill to brookImpassive[39]—fearing but the shame of fear—A stoic of the woods—a man without a tear.

XXIII.

He said—and strained unto his heart the boy;—

Far differently, the mute Oneyda took[39]

His calumet of peace, and cup of joy;[40]

As monumental bronze unchanged his look;

A soul that pity touched, but never shook;

Trained from his tree-rocked cradle[41]to his bier

The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook

Impassive[39]—fearing but the shame of fear—

A stoic of the woods—a man without a tear.

XXIV.Yet deem not goodness on the savage stockOf Outalissi’s heart disdained to grow;As lives the oak unwithered on the rockBy storms above, and barrenness below;He scorned his own, who felt another’s woe:And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung,Or laced his moccasins,[42]in act to go,A song of parting to the boy he sung,Who slept on Albert’s couch, nor heard his friendly tongue.

XXIV.

Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock

Of Outalissi’s heart disdained to grow;

As lives the oak unwithered on the rock

By storms above, and barrenness below;

He scorned his own, who felt another’s woe:

And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung,

Or laced his moccasins,[42]in act to go,

A song of parting to the boy he sung,

Who slept on Albert’s couch, nor heard his friendly tongue.

XXV.“Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming landShouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet.[39]Oh! tell her spirit, that the white man’s handHath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet;While I in lonely wilderness shall greetThy little foot-prints—or by traces knowThe fountain, where at noon I thought it sweetTo feed thee with the quarry of my bow,And poured the lotus-horn,[43]or slew the mountain roe.

XXV.

“Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land

Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet.[39]

Oh! tell her spirit, that the white man’s hand

Hath plucked the thorns of sorrow from thy feet;

While I in lonely wilderness shall greet

Thy little foot-prints—or by traces know

The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet

To feed thee with the quarry of my bow,

And poured the lotus-horn,[43]or slew the mountain roe.

XXVI.“Adieu! sweet scion of the rising sun!But should affliction’s storms thy blossom mockThen come again—my own adopted one!And I will graft thee on a noble stock:The crocodile, the condor of the rock,[44]Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars;And I will teach thee, in the battle’s shock,To pay with Huron blood thy father’s scars,And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars!”

XXVI.

“Adieu! sweet scion of the rising sun!

But should affliction’s storms thy blossom mock

Then come again—my own adopted one!

And I will graft thee on a noble stock:

The crocodile, the condor of the rock,[44]

Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars;

And I will teach thee, in the battle’s shock,

To pay with Huron blood thy father’s scars,

And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars!”

XXVII.So finished he the rhyme (howe’er uncouth)That true to nature’s fervid feelings ran;(And song is but the eloquence of truth:)Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man;[44]But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey’s planIn woods required, whose trainèd eye was keenAs eagle of the wilderness, to scanHis path, by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine,Or ken far friendly huts on good savannahs green.

XXVII.

So finished he the rhyme (howe’er uncouth)

That true to nature’s fervid feelings ran;

(And song is but the eloquence of truth:)

Then forth uprose that lone way-faring man;[44]

But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey’s plan

In woods required, whose trainèd eye was keen

As eagle of the wilderness, to scan

His path, by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine,

Or ken far friendly huts on good savannahs green.

XXVIII.Old Albert saw him from the valley’s side—His pirogue launched—his pilgrimage begun—Far, like the red-bird’s wing he seemed to glide;Then dived, and vanished in the woodlands dun.Oft, to that spot by tender memory won,Would Albert climb the promontory’s height,If but a dim sail glimmered in the sun;But never more, to bless his longing sight,Was Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage bright.

XXVIII.

Old Albert saw him from the valley’s side—

His pirogue launched—his pilgrimage begun—

Far, like the red-bird’s wing he seemed to glide;

Then dived, and vanished in the woodlands dun.

Oft, to that spot by tender memory won,

Would Albert climb the promontory’s height,

If but a dim sail glimmered in the sun;

But never more, to bless his longing sight,

Was Outalissi hailed, with bark and plumage bright.

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