[Footnote A: Arousing of Anti-Slavery agitation, when it was proposed in Congress to abolish the "Missouri Compromise" and throw open the Territories to slavery if their people should so vote.]
[1853.]
As when, on Carmel's sterile steep,The ancient prophet bowed the knee,And seven times sent his servant forthTo look toward the distant sea;
There came at last a little cloud,Scarce larger than the human hand,Spreading and swelling till it brokeIn showers on all the herbless land;
And hearts were glad, and shouts went up,And praise to Israel's mighty God,As the sear hills grew bright with flowers,And verdure clothed the valley sod,—
Even so our eyes have waited long;But now a little cloud appears,Spreading and swelling as it glidesOnward into the coming years.
Bright cloud of Liberty! full soon,Far stretching from the ocean strand,Thy glorious folds shall spread abroad,Encircling our beloved land.
Like the sweet rain on Judah's hills,The glorious boon of love shall fall,And our bond millions shall arise,As at an angel's trumpet-call.
Then shall a shout of joy go up,—The wild, glad cry of freedom comeFrom hearts long crushed by cruel hands,And songs from lips long sealed and dumb;
And every bondman's chain be broke,And every soul that moves abroadIn this wide realm shall know and feelThe blessèd Liberty of God.
* * * * *
John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day:"I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay;But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!"
John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die;And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh:Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grewmild,As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro'schild!
The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart,And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart;That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent,And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!
Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good!Long live the generous purpose unstained with human blood!Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which underlies;Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's sacrifice.
Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the Northern rifle hear,Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the negro's spear;But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes scale,To teach that right is more than might, and justice more than mail!
So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array;In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snow with clay!She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not harm the dove;And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love!
* * * * *
John Brown's body lies a-moldering in the grave,John Brown's body lies slumbering in his grave—But John Brown's soul is marching with the brave,His soul is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!Glory, glory, hallelujah!Glory, glory, hallelujah!His soul is marching on.
He has gone to be a soldier in the Army of the Lord;He is sworn as a private in the ranks of the Lord,—He shall stand at Armageddon with his brave old sword,When Heaven is marching on.
He shall file in front where the lines of battle form,He shall face to front when the squares of battle form—Time with the column, and charge in the storm,Where men are marching on.
Ah, foul Tyrants! do ye hear him where he comes?Ah, black traitor! do ye know him as he comes,In thunder of the cannon and roll of the drums,As we go marching on?
Men may die, and molder in the dust—Men may die, and arise again from dust,Shoulder to shoulder, in the ranks of the Just,When Heaven is marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah!Glory, glory, hallelujah!Glory, glory, hallelujah!His soul is marching on.
* * * * *
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath arestored;He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:His truth is marching on.
I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps;I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,Since God is marching on."
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:O, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,While God is marching on.
* * * * *
[Footnote A: Fremont's proclamation of martial law in Missouri, in August, 1861, declaring free all slaves of Rebels, was received with ardor by the North, but annulled by President Lincoln as premature.]
Thy error, Frémont, simply was to actA brave man's part, without the statesman's tact,And, taking counsel but of common sense,To strike at cause as well as consequence.O, never yet since Roland wound his hornAt Roncesvalles has a blast been blownFar-heard, wide-echoed, startling as thine own,Heard from the van of freedom's hope forlorn!It had been safer, doubtless, for the time,To flatter treason, and avoid offenceTo that Dark Power whose underlying crimeHeaves upward its perpetual turbulence.But, if thine be the fate of all who breakThe ground for truth's seed, or forerun their yearsTill lost in distance, or with stout hearts makeA lane for freedom through the level spears,Still take thou courage! God has spoken through thee,Irrevocable, the mighty words, Be free!The land shakes with them, and the slave's dull earTurns from the rice-swamp stealthily to hear.Who would recall them now must first arrestThe winds that blow down from the free North-west,Ruffling the Gulf; or like a scroll roll backThe Mississippi to its upper springs.Such words fulfil their prophecy, and lackBut the full time to harden into things.
* * * * *
The winds that once the Argo boreHave died by Neptune's ruined shrines,And her hull is the drift of the deep-sea floor,Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines.You may seek her crew on every isleFair in the foam of Ægean seas,But out of their rest no charm can wileJason and Orpheus and Hercules.
And Priam's wail is heard no moreBy windy Ilion's sea-built walls;Nor great Achilles, stained with gore,Shouts "O ye gods, 'tis Hector falls!"On Ida's mount is the shining snow,But Jove has gone from its brow away;And red on the plain the poppies growWhere the Greek and the Trojan fought that day.
Mother Earth, are the heroes dead?Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?Are the gleaming snows and the poppies redAll that is left of the brave of yore?Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,Far in the young world's misty dawn?Or teach as gray-haired Nestor taught?Mother Earth, are the heroes gone?
Gone? In a grander form they rise.Dead? We may clasp their hands in ours,And catch the light of their clearer eyes,And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.Wherever a noble deed is done,'Tis the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred;Wherever Right has a triumph won,There are the heroes' voices heard.Their armor rings on a fairer fieldThan the Greek and the Trojan fiercely trod;For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield,And the gleam above is the smile of God.So, in his isle of calm delight,Jason may sleep the years away;For the heroes live, and the sky is bright,And the world is a braver world to-day.
* * * * *
[On hearing the bells ring on the passage of the ConstitutionalAmendment abolishing slavery.]
It is done!Clang of bell and roar of gunSend the tidings up and down.How the belfries rock and reel!How the great guns, peal on peal,Fling the joy from town to town!
Ring, O bells!Every stroke exulting tellsOf the burial hour of crime.Loud and long, that all may hear,Ring for every listening earOf Eternity and Time!
Let us kneel:God's own voice is in that peal,And this spot is holy ground.Lord, forgive us! What are we,That our eyes this glory see,That our ears have heard the sound!
For the LordOn the whirlwind is abroad;In the earthquake he has spoken;He has smitten with his thunderThe iron walls asunder,And the gates of brass are broken!
Loud and longLift the old exulting song;Sing with Miriam by the sea:He has cast the mighty down;Horse and rider sink and drown;He has triumphed gloriously!
Did we dare,In our agony of prayer,Ask for more than He has done?When was ever his right handOver any time or landStretched as now beneath the sun?
How they pale,Ancient myth and song and tale,In this wonder of our days,When the cruel rod of warBlossoms white with righteous law,And the wrath of man is praise!
Blotted out!All within and all aboutShall a fresher life begin;Freer breathe the universeAs it rolls its heavy curseOn the dead and buried sin.
It is done!In the circuit of the sunShall the sound thereof go forth.It shall bid the sad rejoice,It shall give the dumb a voice,It shall belt with joy the earth!
Ring and swing,Bells of joy! On morning's wingSend the song of praise abroad!With a sound of broken chains,Tell the nations that He reigns,Who alone is Lord and God!
* * * * *
Let Liberty run onward with the years,And circle with the seasons; let her breakThe tyrant's harshness, the oppressor's spears;Bring ripened recompenses that shall makeSupreme amends for sorrow's long arrears;Drop holy benison on hearts that ache;Put clearer radiance into human eyes,And set the glad earth singing to the skies.
Clean natures coin pure statutes. Let us cleanseThe hearts that beat within us; let us mowClear to the roots our falseness and pretence,Tread down our rank ambitions, overthrowOur braggart moods of puffed self-consequence,Plough up our hideous thistles which do growFaster than maize in May time, and strike deadThe base infections our low greeds have bred.
* * * * *
* * * * *
Now went forth the morn,Such as in highest heaven, arrayed in goldEmpyreal; from before her vanished night,Shot through with orient beams; when all the plainCovered with thick embattled squadrons bright,Chariots, and flaming arms, and fiery steeds,Reflecting blaze on blaze, first met his view.
* * * * *
The apostate in his sun-bright chariot sat,Idol of majesty divine, enclosedWith flaming cherubim, and golden shields;Then lighted from his gorgeous throne, for now'Twixt host and host but narrow space was left,A dreadful interval, and front to frontPresented stood in terrible arrayOf hideous length: before the cloudy van,On the rough edge of battle ere it joined,Satan, with vast and haughty strides advanced,Came towering, armed in adamant and gold.
Michael bid soundThe archangel trumpet; through the vast of heavenIt sounded, and the faithful armies rungHosanna to the Highest: nor stood at gazeThe adverse legions, nor less hideous joinedThe horrid shock. Now storming fury rose,And clamor, such as heard in heaven till nowWas never; arms on armor clashing brayedHorrible discord, and the madding wheelsOf brazen chariots raged; dire was the noiseOf conflict; overhead the dismal hissOf fiery darts in flaming volleys flew,And flying vaulted either host with fire.So under fiery cope together rushedBoth battles main, with ruinous assaultAnd inextinguishable rage. All heavenResounded; and had earth been then, all earthHad to her centre shook.
* * * * *
Deeds of eternal fameWere done, but infinite: for wide was spreadThat war, and various: sometimes on firm groundA standing fight, then, soaring on main wing,Tormented all the air; all air seemed thenConflicting fire.
* * * * *
Forthwith (behold the excellence, the powerWhich God hath in his mighty angels placed!)Their arms away threw, and to the hills(For earth hath this variety from heaven,Of pleasures situate in hill and dale),Light as the lightning glimpse they ran, they flew,From their foundations loosening to and fro,They plucked the seated hills, with all their load,Rocks, waters, woods, and by the shaggy topsUplifting bore them in their hands: amaze,Be sure, and terror, seized the rebel host,When coming towards them so dread they sawThe bottom of the mountains upward turned,. . . . and on their headsMain promontories flung, which in the airCame shadowing, and oppressed whole legions armed;Their armor helped their harm, crushed in and bruisedInto their substance pent, which wrought them painImplacable, and many a dolorous groan;Long struggling underneath, ere they could windOut of such prison, though spirits of purest light,Purest at first, now gross by sinning grown.The rest, in imitation, to like armsBetook them, and the neighboring hills uptore:So hills amid the air encountered hills,Hurled to and fro with jaculation dire,That underground they fought in dismal shade;Infernal noise! war seemed a civil gameTo this uproar; horrid confusion heapedUpon confusion rose.
So spake the Son, and into terror changedHis countenance too severe to be beheld,And full of wrath bent on his enemies.At once the four spread out their starry wingsWith dreadful shade contiguous, and the orbsOf his fierce chariot rolled, as with the soundOf torrent floods, or of a numerous host.He on his impious foes right onward drove,Gloomy as night: under his burning wheelsThe steadfast empyrean shook throughout.All but the throne itself of God. Full soonAmong them he arrived; in his right handGrasping ten thousand thunders, which he sentBefore him, such as in their souls infixèdPlagues: they, astonished, all resistance lost,All courage; down their idle weapons dropt;O'er shields, and helms, and helmèd heads he rodeOf thrones and mighty seraphim prostráte,That wished the mountains now might be againThrown on them, as a shelter from his ire.Nor less on either side tempestuous fellHis arrows, from the fourfold-visaged FourDistinct with eyes, and from the living wheelsDistinct alike with multitude of eyes;One spirit in them ruled; and every eyeGlared lightning, and shot forth pernicious fireAmong the accursed, that withered all their strength,And of their wonted vigor left them drained,Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fallen.Yet half his strength he put not forth, but checkedHis thunder in mid volley; for he meantNot to destroy, but root them out of heaven:The overthrown he raised, and as a herdOf goats or timorous flock together thronged,Drove them before him thunderstruck, pursuedWith terrors and with furies, to the boundsAnd crystal wall of heaven; which, opening wide,Rolled inward, and a spacious gap disclosedInto the wasteful deep: the monstrous sightStruck them with horror backward, but far worseUrged them behind: headlong themselves they threwDown from the verge of heaven; eternal wrathBurnt after them to the bottomless pit.
* * * * *
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale.With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
* * * * *
TAMBURLAINE.—But now, my boys, leave off and list to me,That mean to teach you rudiments of war:I'll have you learn to sleep upon the ground,March in your armor through watery fens,Sustain the scorching heat and freezing cold,Hunger and thirst, right adjuncts of the war,And after this to scale a castle wall,Besiege a fort, to undermine a town,And make whole cities caper in the air.Then next the way to fortify your men:In champion grounds, what figure serves you best,For which the quinque-angle form is meet,Because the corners there may fall more flatWhereas the fort may fittest be assailed,And sharpest where the assault is desperate.The ditches must be deep; the counterscarpsNarrow and steep; the walls made high and broad;The bulwarks and the rampires large and strong,With cavalieros and thick counterforts,And room within to lodge six thousand men.It must have privy ditches, countermines,And secret issuings to defend the ditch;It must have high argins and covered ways,To keep the bulwark fronts from battery,And parapets to hide the musketers;Casemates to place the great artillery;And store of ordnance, that from every flankMay scour the outward curtains of the fort,Dismount the cannon of the adverse part,Murder the foe, and save the walls from breach.When this is learned for service on the land,By plain and easy demonstrationI'll teach you how to make the water mount,That you may dry-foot march through lakes and pools,Deep rivers, havens, creeks, and little seas,And make a fortress in the raging waves,Fenced with the concave of monstrous rock,Invincible by nature of the place.When this is done then are ye soldiers,And worthy sons of Tamburlaine the Great.
CALYPHAS.—My lord, but this is dangerous to be done:We may be slain or wounded ere we learn.
TAMBURLAINE.—Villain! Art thou the son of Tamburlaine,And fear'st to die, or with a curtle-axeTo hew thy flesh, and make a gaping wound?Hast thou beheld a peal of ordnance strikeA ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse,Whose shattered limbs, being tossed as high as Heaven,Hang in the air as thick as sunny motes,And canst thou, coward, stand in fear of death?Hast thou not seen my horsemen charge the foe,Shot through the arms, cut overthwart the hands,Dyeing their lances with their streaming blood,And yet at night carouse within my tent,Filling their empty veins with airy wine,That, being concocted, turns to crimson blood.—And wilt thou shun the field for fear of wounds?View me, thy father, that hath conquered kings,And with his horse marched round about the earthQuite void of scars and clear from any wound,That by the wars lost not a drop of blood,—And see him lance his flesh to teach you all.(He cuts his arm.)A wound is nothing, be it ne'er so deep;Blood is the god of war's rich livery,Now look I like a soldier, and this woundAs great a grace and majesty to me,As if a chain of gold, enamellèd,Enchased with diamonds, sapphires, rubies,And fairest pearl of wealthy India,Were mounted here under a canopy,And I sate down clothed with a massy robe,That late adorned the Afric potentate,Whom I brought bound unto Damascus' walls.Come, boys, and with your fingers search my wound,And in my blood wash all your hands at once,While I sit smiling to behold the sight.Now, my boys, what think ye of a wound?
CALYPHAS.—I know not what I should think of it; methinks it is apitiful sight.
CELEBINUS.—'Tis nothing: give me a wound, father.
AMYRAS.—And me another, my lord.
TAMBURLAINE.—Come, sirrah, give me your arm.
CELEBINUS.—Here, father, cut it bravely, as you did your own.
TAMBURLAINE.—It shall suffice thou darest abide a wound:My boy, thou shalt not lose a drop of bloodBefore we meet the army of the Turk;But then run desperate through the thickest throngs,Dreadless of blows, of bloody wounds, and death;And let the burning of Larissa-walls,My speech of war, and this my wound you see,Teach you, my boys, to bear courageous minds,Fit for the followers of great Tamburlaine!
* * * * *
Sound all to arms! (A flourish of trumpets.)Call in the captains,— (To an officer)I would speak with them!
(The officer goes.)
Now, Hope! away,—and welcome gallant Death!Welcome the clanging shield, the trumpet's yell,—Welcome the fever of the mounting blood,That makes wounds light, and battle's crimson toilSeem but a sport,—and welcome the cold bed,Where soldiers with their upturned faces lie,—And welcome wolf's and vulture's hungry throats,That make their sepulchres! We fight to-night.
(The soldiery enter.)
Centurions! all is ruined! I disdainTo hide the truth from you. The die is thrown!And now, let each that wishes for long lifePut up his sword, and kneel for peace to Rome.Ye all are free to go. What! no man stirs!Not one! a soldier's spirit in you all?Give me your hands! (This moisture in my eyesIs womanish,—'twill pass.) My noble hearts!Well have you chosen to die! For, in my mind,The grave is better than o'erburdened life;Better the quick release of glorious wounds,Than the eternal taunts of galling tongues;Better the spear-head quivering in the heart,Than daily struggle against fortune's curse;Better, in manhood's muscle and high blood,To leap the gulf, than totter to its edgeIn poverty, dull pain, and base decay.Once more, I say,—are ye resolved?
(The soldiers shout, "All! All!")
Then, each man to his tent, and take the armsThat he would love to die in,—for,this hour,We storm the Consul's camp. A last farewell!
(He takes their hands.)
When next we meet,—we'll have no time to look,How parting clouds a soldier's countenance.Few as we are, we'll rouse them with a pealThat shall shake Rome!Now to your cohorts' heads;—the word's—Revenge!
* * * * *
Before proud Rome's imperial throneIn mind's unconquered mood,As if the triumph were his own,The dauntless captive stood.None, to have seen his free-born air,Had fancied him a captive there.
Though, through the crowded streets of Rome,With slow and stately tread,Far from his own loved island home,That day in triumph led,—Unbound his head, unbent his knee,Undimmed his eye, his aspect free.
A free and fearless glance he castOn temple, arch, and tower,By which the long procession passedOf Rome's victorious power;And somewhat of a scornful smileUpcurled his haughty lip the while.
And now he stood, with brow serene,Where slaves might prostrate fall,Bearing a Briton's manly mienIn Cæsar's palace hall;Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek,The liberty e'en there to speak.
Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstandThe claim that look preferred,But motioned with uplifted handThe suppliant should be heard,—If he indeed a suppliant wereWhose glance demanded audience there.
Deep stillness fell on all the crowd,From Claudius on his throneDown to the meanest slave that bowedAt his imperial throne;Silent his fellow-captive's griefAs fearless spoke the Island Chief:
"Think not, thou eagle Lord of Rome,And master of the world,Though victory's banner o'er thy domeIn triumph now is furled,I would address thee as thy slave,But as the bold should greet the brave!
"I might, perchance, could I have deignedTo hold a vassal's throne,E'en now in Britain's isle have reignedA king in name alone,Yet holding, as thy meek ally,A monarch's mimic pageantry.
"Then through Rome's crowded streets to-dayI might have rode with thee,Not in a captive's base array,But fetterless and free,—If freedom he could hope to find,Whose bondage is of heart and mind.
"But canst thou marvel that, freeborn,With heart and soul unquelled,Throne, crown, and sceptre I should scorn,By thy permission held?Or that I should retain my rightTill wrested by a conqueror's might?
"Rome, with her palaces and towers,By us unwished, unreft,Her homely huts and woodland bowersTo Britain might have left;Worthless to you their wealth must be,But dear to us, for they were free!
"I might have bowed before, but whereHad been thy triumph now?To my resolve no yoke to bearThou ow'st thy laurelled brow;Inglorious victory had been thine,And more inglorious bondage mine.
"Now I have spoken, do thy will;Be life or death my lot,Since Britain's throne no more I fill,To me it matters not.My fame is clear; but on my fateThy glory or thy shame must wait."
He ceased; from all around upsprungA murmur of applause,For well had truth and freedom's tongueMaintained their holy cause.The conqueror was the captive then;He bade the slave be free again.
* * * * *
My voice is still for war.Gods! can a Roman senate long debateWhich of the two to choose, slavery or death?No; let us rise at once, gird on our swords,And at the head of our remaining troopsAttack the foe, break through the thick arrayOf his thronged legions, and charge home upon him.Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest,May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage.Rise! Fathers, rise! 'tis Rome demands your help:Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens,Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senateManures the fields of Thessaly, while weSit here deliberating, in cold debate,If we should sacrifice our lives to honor,Or wear them out in servitude and chains.Rouse up, for shame! our brothers of PharsaliaPoint at their wounds, and cry aloud,—"To battle!"Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow,And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us.
* * * * *
It was the wild midnight,—A storm was on the sky;The lightning gave its light,And the thunder echoed by.
The torrent swept the glen,The ocean lashed the shore;Then rose the Spartan men,To make their bed in gore!
Swift from the deluge groundThree hundred took the shield;Then, silent, gathered roundThe leader of the field!
He spake no warrior word,He bade no trumpet blow,But the signal thunder roared,And they rushed upon the foe.
The fiery elementShowed, with one mighty gleam,Rampart, and flag, and tent,Like the spectres of a dream.
All up the mountain's side,All down the woody vale,All by the rolling tideWaved the Persian banners pale.
And foremost from the pass,Among the slumbering band,Sprang King Leonidas,Like the lightning's living brand.
Then double darkness fell,And the forest ceased its moan;But there came a clash of steel,And a distant dying groan.
Anon, a trumpet blew,And a fiery sheet burst high,That o'er the midnight threwA blood-red canopy.
A host glared on the hill;A host glared by the bay;But the Greeks rushed onward still,Like leopards in their play.
The air was all a yell,And the earth was all a flame,Where the Spartan's bloody steelOn the silken turbans came;
And still the Greek rushed onWhere the fiery torrent rolled,Till like a rising sunShone Xerxes' tent of gold.
They found a royal feast,His midnight banquet, there;And the treasures of the EastLay beneath the Doric spear.
Then sat to the repastThe bravest of the brave!That feast must be their last,That spot must be their grave.
They pledged old Sparta's nameIn cups of Syrian wine,And the warrior's deathless fameWas sung in strains divine.
They took the rose-wreathed lyresFrom eunuch and from slave,And taught the languid wires,The sounds that Freedom gave.
But now the morning starCrowned Oeta's twilight brow;And the Persian horn of warFrom the hills began to blow.
Up rose the glorious rank,To Greece one cup poured high,Then hand in hand they drank,"To immortality!"
Fear on King Xerxes fell,When, like spirits from the tomb,With shout and trumpet knell,He saw the warriors come.
But down swept all his power,With chariot and with charge;Down poured the arrows' shower.Till sank the Dorian's targe.
They gathered round the tent,With all their strength unstrung;To Greece one look they sent,Then on high their torches flung.
The king sat on the throne,His captains by his side,While the flame rushed roaring on,And their Paean loud replied.
Thus fought the Greek of old!Thus will he fight again!Shall not the self-same mouldBring forth the self-same men?
* * * * *
[1821.]
Again to the battle, Achaians!Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;Our land,—the first garden of Liberty's-tree,—Has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free;For the cross of our faith is replanted,The pale dying crescent is daunted,And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slavesMay be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves.Their spirits are hovering o'er us,And the sword shall to glory restore us.
Ah! what though no succor advances,Nor Christendom's chivalrous lancesAre stretched in our aid?—Be the combat our own!And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,That, living, we will be victorious,Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.
A breath of submission we breathe not:The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not:Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us;But they shall not to slavery doom us:If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves:—But we've smote them already with fire on the waves.And new triumphs on land are before us;—To the charge!—Heaven's banner is o'er us.
This day—shall ye blush for its story;Or brighten your lives with its glory?—Our women—oh, say, shall they shriek in despair,Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair?Accursed may his memory blacken,If a coward there be that would slackenTill we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worthBeing sprung from and named for, the godlike of earth.Strike home!—and the world shall revere usAs heroes descended from heroes.
Old Greece lightens up with emotion!Her inlands, her isles of the ocean,Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring,And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring.Our hearts shall be kindled in gladness,That were cold, and extinguished in sadness;Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms,Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,—When the blood of yon Mussulman cravensShall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens!
* * * * *
At midnight, in his guarded tent,The Turk was dreaming of the hourWhen Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,Should tremble at his power.In dreams, through camp and court, he boreThe trophies of a conqueror;In dreams his song of triumph heard;Then wore his monarch's signet-ring,Then pressed that monarch's throne—a king;As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,As Eden's garden bird.
At midnight, in the forest shades,Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,—True as the steel of their tried blades,Heroes in heart and hand.There had the Persian's thousands stood,There had the glad earth drunk their blood,On old Plataea's day;And now there breathed that haunted airThe sons of sires who conquered there,With arm to strike, and soul to dare,As quick, as far, as they.
An hour passed on, the Turk awoke:That bright dream was his last;He woke—to hear his sentries shriek,"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"He woke—to die midst flame, and smoke,And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,And death-shots falling thick and fastAs lightnings from the mountain-cloud;And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,Bozzaris cheer his band:"Strike—till the last armed foe expires;Strike—for your altars and your fires;Strike—for the green graves of your sires,God, and your native land!"
They fought—like brave men, long and well;They piled that ground with Moslem slain:They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,Bleeding at every vein.His few surviving comrades sawHis smile when rang their proud hurrah,And the red field was won;Then saw in death his eyelids closeCalmly, as to a night's repose,Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death,Come to the mother, when she feels,For the first time, her first-born's breath;Come when the blessèd sealsThat close the pestilence are broke,And crowded cities wail its stroke;Come in consumption's ghastly form,The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;Come when the heart beats high and warm,With banquet song and dance and wine,—And thou art terrible; the tear,The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,And all we know, or dream, or fearOf agony, are thine.
But to the hero, when his swordHas won the battle for the free,Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,And in its hollow tones are heardThe thanks of millions yet to be.Come when his task of fame is wrought;Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought;Come in her crowning hour,—and thenThy sunken eye's unearthly lightTo him is welcome as the sightOf sky and stars to prisoned men;Thy grasp is welcome as the handOf brother in a foreign land;Thy summons welcome as the cryThat told the Indian isles were nighTo the world-seeking Genoese,When the land-wind, from woods of palm,And orange-groves, and fields of balm,Blew o'er the Haytian seas.
Bozzaris! with the storied braveGreece nurtured in her glory's time,Rest thee; there is no prouder grave,Even in her own proud clime.She wore no funeral weeds for thee,Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,The heartless luxury of the tomb.But she remembers thee as oneLong loved, and for a season gone.For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,Her marble wrought, her music breathed;For thee she rings the birthday bells;Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;For thine her evening prayer is saidAt palace couch and cottage bed.Her soldier, closing with the foe,Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;His plighted maiden, when she fearsFor him, the joy of her young years,Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears.And she, the mother of thy boys,Though in her eye and faded cheekIs read the grief she will not speak,The memory of her buried joys,—And even she who gave thee birth,—Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth,Talk of thy doom without a sigh;For thou art freedom's now, and fame's,—One of the few, the immortal namesThat were not born to die.
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Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done,And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory won.
Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy,Captive, overborn by numbers, they were bringing forth to die.
Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo, I perish in my thirst;Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst!"
In his hand he took the goblet: but awhile the draught forbore,Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foeman to explore.
Well might then have paused the bravest—for, around him, angry foesWith a hedge of naked weapons did the lonely man enclose.
"But what fear'st thou?" cried the caliph; "is it, friend, a secret blow?Fear it not! our gallant Moslems no such treacherous dealing know.
"Thou may'st quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die beforeThou hast drunk that cup of water—this reprieve is thine—no more!"
Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand,And the liquid sank forever, lost amid the burning sand.
"Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cupI have drained; then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up!"
For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred—Then exclaimed: "For ever sacred must remain a monarch's word.Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give:Drink, I said before, and perish—now I bid thee drink and live!"
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Then cried my Cid—"In charity, as to the rescue—ho!"With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing low,With stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle-bow,All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe.And he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out,And clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle shout:"Among them, gentlemen! Strike home for the love of charity!The champion of Bivar is here—Ruy Diaz—I am he!"Then bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight,Three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering white;Down go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow;And when they wheel, three hundred more, as charging back they go.It was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day;The shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay;The pennons that went in snow-white came out a gory red;The horses running riderless, the riders lying dead;While Moors call on Mohammed, and "St. James!" the Christians cry,And sixty score of Moors and more in narrow compass lie.
From the Spanish.Translation of JOHN ORMSBY.
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"Your horse is faint, my King, my Lord! your gallant horse is sick,—His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick;Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly!Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace,—their trampling hoofs are nigh!
"My King, my King,! you're wounded sore,—the blood runs from your feet;But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat;Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!—I hear their coming cry,—Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,—I'll save you though I die!
"Stand, noble steed! this hour of need,—be gentle as a lamb;I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,—thy master dear I am,—Mount, Juan, mount; whate'er betide, away the bridle fling,And plunge the rowels in his side.—My horse shall save my King!
"Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours,And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures;If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead,How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head?
"Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain,And say there's one that ran away when our good lords were slain!I leave Diego in your care,—you'll fill his father's place;Strike, strike the spur, and never spare—God's blessing on your Grace!"
So spake the brave Montañez, Butrago's lord was he;And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee;He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill,—He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its fill.
From the Spanish.Translation of JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.
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[Olaf Trygvesön from Ireland is trying to introduce Christianity, and reclaim his father's kingdom, in Norway, and has invaded the realm of Earl Hakon, a formidable heathen usurper, who, after defeat in battle, unsuccessfully attempts to have King Olaf assassinated by Thorer Klake, one of his adherents. But Olaf slays Klake, and now visits Hakon, lying hid in a peasant's hut.]
EnterOLAF TRYGVESÖN,muffled up in a gray cloak, with a broad hat on his head.
HAKON [without looking up].—My valiant Thorer Klake, hast come at last?Hast been successful? Dost thou bring to meWhat thou didst promise? Answer, Thorer Klake.
OLAF.—All things have happened as they should, my lord;But pardon Thorer that he does not comeAnd bring himself King Olaf's head to thee—'Twas difficult for him. Thor knows he hadA sort of loathing that himself should bring it,And so he sent me.
HAKON.—Well, 'tis good; away,And deeply bury it in the dark earth.I will not look on it myself: my eyeBears not such sights,—they reappear in dreams.Bury the body with it. Tell thy lordThat he shall come at once.
OLAF.—He is asleep.
HAKON.—Asleep?
OLAF.—A midday slumber; he lies stretchedStiffly beneath a shadowy elder-tree.
HAKON.—Then wake him up. [Aside.] Asleep, Asleep, and after suchA deed—Ha! Thorer, I admire thee;Thou hast rare courage. [Aloud.] Thrall, go wake him up.
OLAF.—But wilt thou first not look at Olaf's head?
HAKON.—No; I have said no.
OLAF.—Thou dost think, my lord,That perhaps it is a horrid frightful sight:It is not so, my lord; for Olaf's headLooks fresh and sound as any in the land.
HAKON.—Away, I tell thee!
OLAF.—I ne'er saw the like:I always heard that Hakon was a hero,Few like him in the North,—and does he fearTo see a lifeless and a corpseless head?How wouldst thou tremble then, my lord, if thouShouldst see it on his body?
HAKON [turning round angrily].—Thrall, thou darest!Where hast thou got it?
OLAF [takes his hat off, and throws off his cloak].—On my shoulders, Earl.Forgive me that I bring it thee myselfIn such a way: 'twas easiest for me.
HAKON.—What, Olaf! Ha! what treachery is here?
OLAF.—Old gray-beard, spare thy rash, heroic wrath.Attempt not to fight Olaf, but rememberThat he has still his head upon his body,And that thy impotent, gray-bearded strengthWas only fitting for the headless Olaf.
HAKON [rushes at him].—Ha, Hilfheim!
OLAF [strikes his sword, and says in a loud voice].—So, be quiet now, I say,And sheathe thy sword again. My followersSurround the house; my vessels are a matchFor all of thine, and I myself have comeTo win the country in an honest fight.Thyself hast urged me with thy plots to do it.Thou standest like a despicable thrallIn his own pitfall caught at last; but IWill make no use of these advantagesWhich fate has granted me. I am convincedThat I may boldly meet thee face to face.Thy purpose, as thou seest, has wholly failed,And in his own blood does thy Thorer swim.Thou seest 'twere easy for me to have seized thee;To strike thee down were even easier still:But I the Christian doctrine do confess,And do such poor advantages despise.So choose between two courses. Still be EarlOf Hlade as thou wast, and do me homage,Or else take flight; for when we meet again'Twill be the time for red and bleeding brows.
HAKON [proudly and quietly].—My choice is made. I choose the latter, Olaf.Thou callest me a villain and a thrall;That forces up a smile upon my lips.Olaf, one hears indeed that thou art young;It is by mockery and arroganceThat one can judge thy age. Now, look at meFull in the eyes; consider well my brow:Hast thou among the thralls e'er met such looks?Dost think that cunning or that cowardiceCould e'er have carved these wrinkles on my brow?I did entice thee hither. Ha! 'tis trueI knew that thou didst wait but for a signTo flutter after the enticing bait;That in thy soul thou didst more highly prizeThy kinship with an extinct race of kingsThan great Earl Hakon's world-renownèd deeds;That thou didst watch the opportunityTo fall upon the old man in his rest.Does it astonish thee that I should wishQuickly to rid myself of such a foe?That I deceived a dreamer who despisedThe mighty gods,—does that astonish thee?Does it astonish thee that I approvedMy warrior's purpose, since a hostile fateAttempted to dethrone, not only me,But all Valhalla's gods?
OLAF.—Remember, Hakon,—Remember, Hakon, that e'en thou thyselfHast been a Christian; that thou wast baptizedBy Bishop Popo, and that thou since thenDidst break thy oath. How many hast thou broken?
HAKON.—Accursed forever may that moment beWhen by the cunning monk I was deceived,And let myself be fooled by paltry tricks.He held a red-hot iron in his hand,After by magic he had covered itWith witches' ointment.
OLAF.—O thou blind old man!Thy silver hair does make me pity thee.
HAKON.—Ha! spare thy pity; as thou seest me here,Thou seest the last flash and the latest sparkOf ancient Northern force and hero's life;And that, with all thy fever-stricken dreams,Proud youth, thou shalt be powerless to quench.I well do know it is the Christian customTo pity, to convert, and to amend.Our custom is to heartily despise you,To ruminate upon your fall and death,As foes to gods and to a hero's life.That Hakon does, and therein does consistHis villainy. By Odin, and by Thor,Thou shalt not quench old Norway's warlike flameWith all thy misty dreams of piety.
OLAF.—'Tis well: fate shall decide. We separate,And woe to thee when next we meet again.
HAKON.—Aye, woe to me if then I crush thee not.
OLAF.—Heaven shall strike thee with its fiery might!
HAKON.—No, with his hammer Thor the cross will smite!
From the Danish of ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER.Translation of SIR FRANK C. LASCELLES.
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