Poems

THE OBDURATE BEAUTY

("A Juana la Grenadine!")

{XXIX., October, 1843.}

     To Juana ever gay,     Sultan Achmet spoke one day       "Lo, the realms that kneel to own       Homage to my sword and crown     All I'd freely cast away,       Maiden dear, for thee alone."     "Be a Christian, noble king!     For it were a grievous thing:       Love to seek and find too well       In the arms of infidel.     Spain with cry of shame would ring,       If from honor faithful fell."     "By these pearls whose spotless chain,     Oh, my gentle sovereign,       Clasps thy neck of ivory,       Aught thou askest I will be,     If that necklace pure of stain       Thou wilt give for rosary."JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

DON RODRIGO

A MOORISH BALLAD

("Don Roderique est à la chasse.")

{XXX., May, 1828.}

     Unto the chase Rodrigo's gone,       With neither lance nor buckler;     A baleful light his eyes outshone —       To pity he's no truckler.     He follows not the royal stag,       But, full of fiery hating,     Beside the way one sees him lag,       Impatient at the waiting.     He longs his nephew's blood to spill,       Who 'scaped (the young Mudarra)     That trap he made and laid to kill       The seven sons of Lara.     Along the road – at last, no balk —       A youth looms on a jennet;     He rises like a sparrow-hawk       About to seize a linnet.     "What ho!" "Who calls?" "Art Christian knight,       Or basely born and boorish,     Or yet that thing I still more slight —       The spawn of some dog Moorish?     "I seek the by-born spawn of one       I e'er renounce as brother —     Who chose to make his latest son       Caress a Moor as mother.     "I've sought that cub in every hole,       'Midland, and coast, and islet,     For he's the thief who came and stole       Our sheathless jewelled stilet."     "If you well know the poniard worn       Without edge-dulling cover —     Look on it now – here, plain, upborne!       And further be no rover.     "Tis I – as sure as you're abhorred       Rodrigo – cruel slayer,     'Tis I am Vengeance, and your lord,       Who bids you crouch in prayer!     "I shall not grant the least delay —       Use what you have, defending,     I'll send you on that darksome way       Your victims late were wending.     "And if I wore this, with its crest —       Our seal with gems enwreathing —     In open air – 'twas in your breast       To seek its fated sheathing!"

CORNFLOWERS

("Tandis que l'étoile inodore.")

{XXXII.}

     While bright but scentless azure stars       Be-gem the golden corn,     And spangle with their skyey tint       The furrows not yet shorn;     While still the pure white tufts of May       Ape each a snowy ball, —     Away, ye merry maids, and haste       To gather ere they fall!     Nowhere the sun of Spain outshines       Upon a fairer town     Than Peñafiel, or endows       More richly farming clown;     Nowhere a broader square reflects       Such brilliant mansions, tall, —     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     Nowhere a statelier abbey rears       Dome huger o'er a shrine,     Though seek ye from old Rome itself       To even Seville fine.     Here countless pilgrims come to pray      And promenade the Mall, —     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     Where glide the girls more joyfully       Than ours who dance at dusk,     With roses white upon their brows,       With waists that scorn the busk?     Mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes —       Compared with these, how small!     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     A blossom in a city lane,       Alizia was our pride,     And oft the blundering bee, deceived,       Came buzzing to her side —     But, oh! for one that felt the sting,       And found, 'neath honey, gall —     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     Young, haughty, from still hotter lands,       A stranger hither came —     Was he a Moor or African,       Or Murcian known to fame?     None knew – least, she – or false or true,       The name by which to call.     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     Alizia asked not his degree,       She saw him but as Love,     And through Xarama's vale they strayed,       And tarried in the grove, —     Oh! curses on that fatal eve,       And on that leafy hall!     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     The darkened city breathed no more;       The moon was mantled long,     Till towers thrust the cloudy cloak       Upon the steeples' throng;     The crossway Christ, in ivy draped,       Shrank, grieving, 'neath the pall, —     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     But while, alone, they kept the shade,       The other dark-eyed dears     Were murmuring on the stifling air       Their jealous threats and fears;     Alizia was so blamed, that time,       Unheeded rang the call:     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     Although, above, the hawk describes       The circle round the lark,     It sleeps, unconscious, and our lass       Had eyes but for her spark —     A spark? – a sun!  'Twas Juan, King!       Who wears our coronal, —     Away, ye merry maids, etc.     A love so far above one's state       Ends sadly. Came a black     And guarded palanquin to bear       The girl that ne'er comes back;     By royal writ, some nunnery       Still shields her from us all     Away, ye merry maids, and haste       To gather ere they fall!H. L. WILLIAMS

MAZEPPA

("Ainsi, lorsqu'un mortel!")

{XXXIV., May, 1828.}

     As when a mortal – Genius' prize, alack!     Is, living, bound upon thy fatal back,         Thou reinless racing steed!     In vain he writhes, mere cloud upon a star,     Thou bearest him as went Mazeppa, far         Out of the flow'ry mead, —     So – though thou speed'st implacable, (like him,     Spent, pallid, torn, bruised, weary, sore and dim,         As if each stride the nearer bring     Him to the grave) – when comes the time,     After the fall, he rises – KING!H.L. WILLIAMS

THE DANUBE IN WRATH

("Quoi! ne pouvez-vous vivre ensemble?")

{XXXV., June, 1828.}

     The River Deity upbraids his Daughters, the contributary Streams: —     Ye daughters mine! will naught abate     Your fierce interminable hate?     Still am I doomed to rue the fate       That such unfriendly neighbors made?     The while ye might, in peaceful cheer,     Mirror upon your waters clear,     Semlin! thy Gothic steeples dear,       And thy bright minarets, Belgrade!Fraser's Magazine

OLD OCEAN

("J'étais seul près des flots.")

{XXXVII., September 5, 1828.}

     I stood by the waves, while the stars soared in sight,     Not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright;       Scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eye;     And the woods, and the hills, and all nature around,     Seem'd to question with moody, mysterious sound,       The waves, and the pure stars on high.     And the clear constellations, that infinite throng,     While thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song,       Replying, bowed meekly their diamond-blaze —     And the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest,     Chorus'd forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest       "Creator! we bless thee and praise!"R.C. ELLWOOD

MY NAPOLEON

("Toujours lui! lui partout!")

{XL., December, 1828.}

     Above all others, everywhere I see       His image cold or burning!     My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free       The thoughts within me yearning.     My quivering lips pour forth the words       That cluster in his name of glory —     The star gigantic with its rays of swords       Whose gleams irradiate all modern story.     I see his finger pointing where the shell       Should fall to slay most rabble,     And save foul regicides; or strike the knell       Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble.     A Consul then, o'er young but proud,       With midnight poring thinned, and sallow,     But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud,       And round pale face and lank locks form the halo.     And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame       Whole nations' contact urging     To gain his soldiers gold and fame       Oh, Sun on high emerging,     Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells       Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose     To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells,       Into his host of half-a-million heroes!     What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart.       No weight of arms enfolded     Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart       Which Nature – not her journeymen – self-moulded.     Let sordid jailers vex their prize;       But only bends that brow to lightning,     As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs       Cleave through the storm and haste where France looms bright'ning.     Alone, but greater! Broke the sceptre, true!       Yet lingers still some power —     In tears of woe man's metal may renew       The temper of high hour;     For, bating breath, e'er list the kings       The pinions clipped may grow! the Eagle     May burst, in frantic thirst for home, the rings       And rend the Bulldog, Fox, and Bear, and Beagle!     And, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and here       Eternal brightness coming!     The eye so weary's freshened with a tear       As rises distant drumming,     And wailing cheer – they pass the pale       His army mourns though still's the end hid;     And from his war-stained cloak, he answers "Hail!"       And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid!H.L. WILLIAMS.

LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE. – 1831.

THE PATIENCE OF THE PEOPLE

("Il s'est dit tant de fois.")

{III., May, 1830.}

     How often have the people said: "What's power?"     Who reigns soon is dethroned? each fleeting hour     Has onward borne, as in a fevered dream,     Such quick reverses, like a judge supreme —     Austere but just, they contemplate the end     To which the current of events must tend.     Self-confidence has taught them to forbear,     And in the vastness of their strength, they spare.     Armed with impunity, for one in vain     Resists a nation, they let others reign.G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

DICTATED BEFORE THE RHONE GLACIER

("Souvent quand mon esprit riche.")

{VII., May 18, 1828.}

     When my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled,     Floats on in repose round this wonderful world,         Oft the sacred fire from heaven —     Mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul —     Strikes mine with its ray, and above the pole         Its upward course is driven,     Like a wandering cloud, then, my eager thought     Capriciously flies, to no guidance brought,         With every quarter's wind;     It regards from those radiant vaults on high,     Earth's cities below, and again doth fly,         And leaves but its shadow behind.     In the glistening gold of the morning bright,     It shines, detaching some lance of light,         Or, as warrior's armor rings;     It forages forests that ferment around,     Or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found,         Where the west its radiance flings.     Or, on mountain peak, that rears its head     Where snow-clad Alps around are spread,         By furious gale 'tis thrown.     From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away,     And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray,         The giant mountain's crown!     Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled,     In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed;         On its side the rainbow plays,     And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below,     The last slanting ray on its crest of snow         Makes its cap like a crater to blaze.     In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light,     The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight,         The eagle afar is driven;     The deluge but roars in despair to its feet,     And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet,         So near doth it rise to heaven.     Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear,     Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near;         On the starry vault to gaze,     And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night,     On th' horizon high heaving, like arches of light,         Till again the sun shall blaze.     For then will the glacier with glory be graced,     On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed,         The morn its echoes greet;     Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life,     Like Chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife,         When waters on waters meet.     As the spirit of poesy touches my thought,     It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought,         From earth, with the waters of pain.     As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends,     These fly to the heavens – their course never ends,         But descend to the ocean again.Author of "Critical Essays."

THE POET'S LOVE FOR LIVELINESS

("Moi, quelque soit le monde.")

{XV., May 11, 1830.}

     For me, whate'er my life and lot may show,     Years blank with gloom or cheered by mem'ry's glow,       Turmoil or peace; never be it mine, I pray,     To be a dweller of the peopled earth,     Save 'neath a roof alive with children's mirth       Loud through the livelong day.     So, if my hap it be to see once more     Those scenes my footsteps tottered in before,       An infant follower in Napoleon's train:     Rodrigo's holds, Valencia and Leon,     And both Castiles, and mated Aragon;       Ne'er be it mine, O Spain!       To pass thy plains with cities scant between,     Thy stately arches flung o'er deep ravine,       Thy palaces, of Moor's or Roman's time;     Or the swift makings of thy Guadalquiver,     Save in those gilded cars, where bells forever       Ring their melodious chime.Fraser's Magazine

INFANTILE INFLUENCE

("Lorsque l'enfant parait.")

{XIX., May 11, 1830.}

     The child comes toddling in, and young and old     With smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold,         And artless, babyish joy;     A playful welcome greets it through the room,     The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom,         To greet the happy boy.     If June with flowers has spangled all the ground,     Or winter bleak the flickering hearth around         Draws close the circling seat;     The child still sheds a never-failing light;     We call; Mamma with mingled joy and fright         Watches its tottering feet.     Perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw,     We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law,         Or politics, or prayer;     The child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play,     Farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay,         Philosophy and care.     When fancy wakes, but sense in heaviest sleep     Lies steeped, and like the sobs of them that weep         The dark stream sinks and swells,     The dawn, like Pharos gleaming o'er the sea,     Bursts forth, and sudden wakes the minstrelsy         Of birds and chiming bells;     Thou art my dawn; my soul is as the field,     Where sweetest flowers their balmy perfumes yield         When breathed upon by thee,     Of forest, where thy voice like zephyr plays,     And morn pours out its flood of golden rays,         When thy sweet smile I see.     Oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue;     And little hands that evil never knew,         Pure as the new-formed snow;     Thy feet are still unstained by this world's mire,     Thy golden locks like aureole of fire         Circle thy cherub brow!     Dove of our ark, thine angel spirit flies     On azure wings forth from thy beaming eyes.         Though weak thine infant feet,     What strange amaze this new and strange world gives     To thy sweet virgin soul, that spotless lives         In virgin body sweet.     Oh, gentle face, radiant with happy smile,     And eager prattling tongue that knows no guile,         Quick changing tears and bliss;     Thy soul expands to catch this new world's light,     Thy mazed eyes to drink each wondrous sight,         Thy lips to taste the kiss.     Oh, God! bless me and mine, and these I love,     And e'en my foes that still triumphant prove         Victors by force or guile;     A flowerless summer may we never see,     Or nest of bird bereft, or hive of bee,         Or home of infant's smile.HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.

THE WATCHING ANGEL

("Dans l'alcôve sombre.")

{XX., November, 1831.}

     In the dusky nook,       Near the altar laid,     Sleeps the child in shadow       Of his mother's bed:     Softly he reposes,     And his lid of roses,     Closed to earth, uncloses       On the heaven o'erhead.     Many a dream is with him,       Fresh from fairyland,     Spangled o'er with diamonds       Seems the ocean sand;     Suns are flaming there,     Troops of ladies fair     Souls of infants bear       In each charming hand.     Oh, enchanting vision!       Lo, a rill upsprings,     And from out its bosom       Comes a voice that sings     Lovelier there appear     Sire and sisters dear,     While his mother near       Plumes her new-born wings.     But a brighter vision       Yet his eyes behold;     Roses pied and lilies       Every path enfold;     Lakes delicious sleeping,     Silver fishes leaping,     Through the wavelets creeping       Up to reeds of gold.     Slumber on, sweet infant,       Slumber peacefully     Thy young soul yet knows not       What thy lot may be.     Like dead weeds that sweep     O'er the dol'rous deep,     Thou art borne in sleep.       What is all to thee?     Thou canst slumber by the way;       Thou hast learnt to borrow     Naught from study, naught from care;       The cold hand of sorrow     On thy brow unwrinkled yet,     Where young truth and candor sit,     Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ       That sad word, "To-morrow!"     Innocent! thou sleepest —       See the angelic band,     Who foreknow the trials       That for man are planned;     Seeing him unarmed,     Unfearing, unalarmed,     With their tears have warmed       This unconscious hand.     Still they, hovering o'er him,       Kiss him where he lies,     Hark, he sees them weeping,       "Gabriel!" he cries;     "Hush!" the angel says,     On his lip he lays     One finger, one displays       His native skies.Foreign Quarterly Review

SUNSET

("Le soleil s'est couché")

{XXXV. vi., April, 1829.}

     The sun set this evening in masses of cloud,       The storm comes to-morrow, then calm be the night,     Then the Dawn in her chariot refulgent and proud,       Then more nights, and still days, steps of Time in his flight.     The days shall pass rapid as swifts on the wing.       O'er the face of the hills, o'er the face of the seas,     O'er streamlets of silver, and forests that ring       With a dirge for the dead, chanted low by the breeze;     The face of the waters, the brow of the mounts     Deep scarred but not shrivelled, and woods tufted green,     Their youth shall renew; and the rocks to the founts     Shall yield what these yielded to ocean their queen.     But day by day bending still lower my head,       Still chilled in the sunlight, soon I shall have cast,     At height of the banquet, my lot with the dead,       Unmissed by creation aye joyous and vast.TORU DUTT.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER

("Ma fille, va prier!")

{XXXVII., June, 1830.}

I     Come, child, to prayer; the busy day is done,       A golden star gleams through the dusk of night;     The hills are trembling in the rising mist,       The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight;     All things wend home to rest; the roadside trees       Shake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze.     The sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze,       As twilight open flings the doors of night;     The fringe of carmine narrows in the west,       The rippling waves are tipped with silver light;     The bush, the path – all blend in one dull gray;     The doubtful traveller gropes his anxious way.     Oh, day! with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife;       Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet,     The sad winds moaning through the ruined tower,       The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat —     All nature groans opprest with toil and care,     And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer.     At eve the babes with angels converse hold,       While we to our strange pleasures wend our way,     Each with its little face upraised to heaven,       With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray,     At selfsame hour with selfsame words they call     On God, the common Father of them all.     And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon,       Born as the busy day's last murmurs die,     In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom       Their breathing lips and golden locks descry.     And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam,     Around their curtained cradles clustering come.     Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent;       Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure, and light;     Oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles,       Meet prelude to the harmonies of night;     As birds beneath the wing enfold their head,     Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed.HENRY HIGHTON, M.A.II     To prayer, my child! and O, be thy first prayer     For her who, many nights, with anxious care,       Rocked thy first cradle; who took thy infant soul     From heaven and gave it to the world; then rife       With love, still drank herself the gall of life,     And left for thy young lips the honeyed bowl.     And then – I need it more – then pray for me!     For she is gentle, artless, true like thee; —       She has a guileless heart, brow placid still;     Pity she has for all, envy for none;     Gentle and wise, she patiently lives on;       And she endures, nor knows who does the ill.     In culling flowers, her novice hand has ne'er     Touched e'en the outer rind of vice; no snare       With smiling show has lured her steps aside:     On her the past has left no staining mark;     Nor knows she aught of those bad thoughts which, dark       Like shade on waters, o'er the spirit glide.     She knows not – nor mayest thou – the miseries     In which our spirits mingle: vanities,       Remorse, soul-gnawing cares, Pleasure's false show:     Passions which float upon the heart like foam,     Bitter remembrances which o'er us come,       And Shame's red spot spread sudden o'er the brow.     I know life better! when thou'rt older grown     I'll tell thee – it is needful to be known —       Of the pursuit of wealth – art, power; the cost.     That it is folly, nothingness: that shame     For glory is oft thrown us in the game       Of Fortune; chances where the soul is lost.     The soul will change. Although of everything     The cause and end be clear, yet wildering       We roam through life (of vice and error full).     We wander as we go; we feel the load     Of doubt; and to the briars upon the road       Man leaves his virtue, as the sheep its wool.     Then go, go pray for me! And as the prayer     Gushes in words, be this the form they bear: —       "Lord, Lord, our Father! God, my prayer attend;     Pardon! Thou art good! Pardon – Thou art great!"     Let them go freely forth, fear not their fate!       Where thy soul sends them, thitherward they tend.     There's nothing here below which does not find     Its tendency. O'er plains the rivers wind,       And reach the sea; the bee, by instinct driven,     Finds out the honeyed flowers; the eagle flies     To seek the sun; the vulture where death lies;       The swallow to the spring; the prayer to Heaven!     And when thy voice is raised to God for me,     I'm like the slave whom in the vale we see       Seated to rest, his heavy load laid by;     I feel refreshed – the load of faults and woe     Which, groaning, I drag with me as I go,       Thy wingèd prayer bears off rejoicingly!     Pray for thy father! that his dreams be bright     With visitings of angel forms of light,       And his soul burn as incense flaming wide,     Let thy pure breath all his dark sins efface,     So that his heart be like that holy place,       An altar pavement each eve purified!     And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon,       Born as the busy day's last murmurs die,     In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom       Their breathing lips and golden locks descry.     And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam,     Around their curtained cradles clustering come.C., Tait's Magazine

LES CHANTS DU CRÉPUSCULE. – 1849.

PRELUDE TO "THE SONGS OF TWILIGHT."

("De quel non te nommer?")

{PRELUDE, a, Oct. 20, 1835.}

     How shall I note thee, line of troubled years,       Which mark existence in our little span?     One constant twilight in the heaven appears —       One constant twilight in the mind of man!     Creed, hope, anticipation and despair,       Are but a mingling, as of day and night;     The globe, surrounded by deceptive air,       Is all enveloped in the same half-light.     And voice is deadened by the evening breeze,       The shepherd's song, or maiden's in her bower,     Mix with the rustling of the neighboring trees,       Within whose foliage is lulled the power.     Yet all unites! The winding path that leads       Thro' fields where verdure meets the trav'ller's eye.     The river's margin, blurred with wavy reeds,       The muffled anthem, echoing to the sky!     The ivy smothering the armèd tower;       The dying wind that mocks the pilot's ear;     The lordly equipage at midnight hour,       Draws into danger in a fog the peer;     The votaries of Satan or of Jove;       The wretched mendicant absorbed in woe;     The din of multitudes that onward move;       The voice of conscience in the heart below;     The waves, which Thou, O Lord, alone canst still;       Th' elastic air; the streamlet on its way;     And all that man projects, or sovereigns will;       Or things inanimate might seem to say;     The strain of gondolier slow streaming by;       The lively barks that o'er the waters bound;     The trees that shake their foliage to the sky;       The wailing voice that fills the cots around;     And man, who studies with an aching heart —       For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere,     In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart —       Those doubts at length will arguments appear!     Hence, reader, know the subject of my song —       A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom,     Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along,       With noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb!G.W.M. REYNOLDS