Poems

THE LAND OF FABLE

("L'Orient! qu'y voyez-vous, poëtes?")

{PRELUDE, b.}

     Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes,       Unto the East, and say what there appears!     "Alas!" the voice of Poesy replies,       "Mystic's that light between the hemispheres!"     "Yes, dread's the mystic light in yonder heaven —       Dull is the gleam behind the distant hill;     Like feeble flashes in the welkin driven,       When the far thunder seems as it were still!     "But who can tell if that uncertain glare       Be Phoebus' self, adorned with glowing vest;     Or, if illusions, pregnant in the air,       Have drawn our glances to the radiant west?     "Haply the sunset has deceived the sight —       Perchance 'tis evening, while we look for morning;     Bewildered in the mazes of twilight,       That lucid sunset may appear a dawning!"G.W.M. REYNOLDS

THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS

("Frères, vous avez vos journées.")

{I., July, 1830.}

     Youth of France, sons of the bold,     Your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold!     Our civic-laurels – honored dead!       So bright your triumphs in life's morn,       Your maiden-standards hacked and torn,     On Austerlitz might lustre shed.     All that your fathers did re-done —     A people's rights all nobly won —     Ye tore them living from the shroud!       Three glorious days bright July's gift,       The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift!     Oh! of such deeds be ever proud!     Of patriot sires ye lineage claim,     Their souls shone in your eye of flame;     Commencing the great work was theirs;       On you the task to finish laid       Your fruitful mother, France, who bade     Flow in one day a hundred years.     E'en chilly Albion admires,     The grand example Europe fires;     America shall clap her hands,       When swiftly o'er the Atlantic wave,       Fame sounds the news of how the brave,     In three bright days, have burst their bands!     With tyrant dead your fathers traced     A circle wide, with battles graced;     Victorious garland, red and vast!       Which blooming out from home did go       To Cadiz, Cairo, Rome, Moscow,     From Jemappes to Montmirail passed!     Of warlike Lyceums{1} ye are     The favored sons; there, deeds of war     Formed e'en your plays, while o'er you shook       The battle-flags in air aloft!       Passing your lines, Napoleon oft     Electrified you with a look!     Eagle of France! whose vivid wing     Did in a hundred places fling     A bloody feather, till one night       The arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wave!       Look up – rejoice – for now thy brave     And worthy eaglets dare the light.ELIZABETH COLLINS.

{Footnote 1: The pupils of the Polytechnic Military School distinguished

themselves by their patriotic zeal and military skill, through all the

troubles.}

TRIBUTE TO THE VANQUISHED

("Laissez-moi pleurer sur cette race.")

{I. v.}

       Oh! let me weep that race whose day is past,         By exile given, by exile claimed once more,       Thrice swept away upon that fatal blast.         Whate'er its blame, escort we to our shore         These relics of the monarchy of yore;     And to th' outmarching oriflamme be paid     War's honors by the flag on Fleurus' field displayed!Fraser's Magazine

ANGEL OR DEMON

("Tu domines notre âge; ange ou démon, qu'importe!")

{I. vii.}

       Angel or demon! thou, – whether of light       The minister, or darkness – still dost sway       This age of ours; thine eagle's soaring flight       Bears us, all breathless, after it away.       The eye that from thy presence fain would stray,       Shuns thee in vain; thy mighty shadow thrown       Rests on all pictures of the living day,       And on the threshold of our time alone,     Dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, Napoleon!       Thus, when the admiring stranger's steps explore       The subject-lands that 'neath Vesuvius be,       Whether he wind along the enchanting shore       To Portici from fair Parthenope,       Or, lingering long in dreamy reverie,       O'er loveliest Ischia's od'rous isle he stray,       Wooed by whose breath the soft and am'rous sea       Seems like some languishing sultana's lay,     A voice for very sweets that scarce can win its way.       Him, whether Paestum's solemn fane detain,       Shrouding his soul with meditation's power;       Or at Pozzuoli, to the sprightly strain       Of tarantella danced 'neath Tuscan tower,       Listening, he while away the evening hour;       Or wake the echoes, mournful, lone and deep,       Of that sad city, in its dreaming bower       By the volcano seized, where mansions keep     The likeness which they wore at that last fatal sleep;       Or be his bark at Posillippo laid,       While as the swarthy boatman at his side       Chants Tasso's lays to Virgil's pleased shade,       Ever he sees, throughout that circuit wide,       From shaded nook or sunny lawn espied,       From rocky headland viewed, or flow'ry shore,       From sea, and spreading mead alike descried,       The Giant Mount, tow'ring all objects o'er,     And black'ning with its breath th' horizon evermore!Fraser's Magazine

THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS

("Quand longtemps a grondé la bouche du Vésuve.")

{I. vii.}

       When huge Vesuvius in its torment long,       Threatening has growled its cavernous jaws among,       When its hot lava, like the bubbling wine,       Foaming doth all its monstrous edge incarnadine,       Then is alarm in Naples.                                  With dismay,       Wanton and wild her weeping thousands pour,       Convulsive grasp the ground, its rage to stay,       Implore the angry Mount – in vain implore!       For lo! a column tow'ring more and more,     Of smoke and ashes from the burning crest     Shoots like a vulture's neck reared from its airy nest.       Sudden a flash, and from th' enormous den       Th' eruption's lurid mass bursts forth amain,       Bounding in frantic ecstasy. Ah! then       Farewell to Grecian fount and Tuscan fane!       Sails in the bay imbibe the purpling stain,     The while the lava in profusion wide     Flings o'er the mountain's neck its showery locks untied.       It comes – it comes! that lava deep and rich,       That dower which fertilizes fields and fills       New moles upon the waters, bay and beach.       Broad sea and clustered isles, one terror thrills       As roll the red inexorable rills;     While Naples trembles in her palaces,     More helpless than the leaves when tempests shake the trees.       Prodigious chaos, streets in ashes lost,         Dwellings devoured and vomited again.       Roof against neighbor-roof, bewildered, tossed.         The waters boiling and the burning plain;     While clang the giant steeples as they reel,     Unprompted, their own tocsin peal.       Yet 'mid the wreck of cities, and the pride       Of the green valleys and the isles laid low,       The crash of walls, the tumult waste and wide,       O'er sea and land; 'mid all this work of woe,       Vesuvius still, though close its crater-glow,     Forgetful spares – Heaven wills that it should spare,     The lonely cell where kneels an aged priest in prayer.Fraser's Magazine.

MARRIAGE AND FEASTS

("La salle est magnifique.")

{IV. Aug. 23, 1839.}

       The hall is gay with limpid lustre bright —       The feast to pampered palate gives delight —       The sated guests pick at the spicy food,       And drink profusely, for the cheer is good;       And at that table – where the wise are few —       Both sexes and all ages meet the view;       The sturdy warrior with a thoughtful face —       The am'rous youth, the maid replete with grace,       The prattling infant, and the hoary hair       Of second childhood's proselytes – are there; —       And the most gaudy in that spacious hall,       Are e'er the young, or oldest of them all       Helmet and banner, ornament and crest,       The lion rampant, and the jewelled vest,       The silver star that glitters fair and white,       The arms that tell of many a nation's might —       Heraldic blazonry, ancestral pride,       And all mankind invents for pomp beside,       The wingèd leopard, and the eagle wild —       All these encircle woman, chief and child;       Shine on the carpet burying their feet,       Adorn the dishes that contain their meat;       And hang upon the drapery, which around       Falls from the lofty ceiling to the ground,       Till on the floor its waving fringe is spread,       As the bird's wing may sweep the roses' bed. —     Thus is the banquet ruled by Noise and Light,     Since Light and Noise are foremost on the site.       The chamber echoes to the joy of them       Who throng around, each with his diadem —       Each seated on proud throne – but, lesson vain!       Each sceptre holds its master with a chain!       Thus hope of flight were futile from that hall,       Where chiefest guest was most enslaved of all!       The godlike-making draught that fires the soul       The Love – sweet poison-honey – past control,(Formed of the sexual breath – an idle name,Offspring of Fancy and a nervous frame) —       Pleasure, mad daughter of the darksome Night,       Whose languid eye flames when is fading light —       The gallant chases where a man is borne       By stalwart charger, to the sounding horn —       The sheeny silk, the bed of leaves of rose,       Made more to soothe the sight than court repose;       The mighty palaces that raise the sneer       Of jealous mendicants and wretches near —       The spacious parks, from which horizon blue       Arches o'er alabaster statues new;       Where Superstition still her walk will take,       Unto soft music stealing o'er the lake —       The innocent modesty by gems undone —       The qualms of judges by small brib'ry won —       The dread of children, trembling while they play —       The bliss of monarchs, potent in their sway —       The note of war struck by the culverin,       That snakes its brazen neck through battle din —       The military millipede       That tramples out the guilty seed —       The capital all pleasure and delight —       And all that like a town or army chokes       The gazer with foul dust or sulphur smokes.       The budget, prize for which ten thousand bait       A subtle hook, that ever, as they wait       Catches a weed, and drags them to their fate,       While gleamingly its golden scales still spread —       Such were the meats by which these guests were fed.       A hundred slaves for lazy master cared,       And served each one with what was e'er prepared       By him, who in a sombre vault below,       Peppered the royal pig with peoples' woe,       And grimly glad went laboring till late —       The morose alchemist we know as Fate!       That ev'ry guest might learn to suit his taste,       Behind had Conscience, real or mock'ry, placed;       Conscience a guide who every evil spies,       But royal nurses early pluck out both his eyes!       Oh! at the table there be all the great,       Whose lives are bubbles that best joys inflate!       Superb, magnificent of revels – doubt       That sagest lose their heads in such a rout!       In the long laughter, ceaseless roaming round,       Joy, mirth and glee give out a maelström's sound;       And the astonished gazer casts his care,       Where ev'ry eyeball glistens in the flare.       But oh! while yet the singing Hebes pour       Forgetfulness of those without the door —       At very hour when all are most in joy,       And the hid orchestra annuls annoy,       Woe – woe! with jollity a-top the heights,       With further tapers adding to the lights,       And gleaming 'tween the curtains on the street,       Where poor folks stare – hark to the heavy feet!       Some one smites roundly on the gilded grate,       Some one below will be admitted straight,       Some one, though not invited, who'll not wait!       Close not the door! Your orders are vain breath —       That stranger enters to be known as Death —       Or merely Exile – clothed in alien guise —       Death drags away – with his prey Exile flies!       Death is that sight. He promenades the hall,       And casts a gloomy shadow on them all,       'Neath which they bend like willows soft,       Ere seizing one – the dumbest monarch oft,       And bears him to eternal heat and drouth,       While still the toothsome morsel's in his mouth.G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

THE MORROW OF GRANDEUR

("Non, l'avenir n'est à personne!")

{V. ii., August, 1832.}

     Sire, beware, the future's range       Is of God alone the power,     Naught below but augurs change,       E'en with ev'ry passing hour.     Future! mighty mystery!     All the earthly goods that be,     Fortune, glory, war's renown,     King or kaiser's sparkling crown,     Victory! with her burning wings,     Proud ambition's covetings, —       These may our grasp no more detain     Than the free bird who doth alight     Upon our roof, and takes its flight       High into air again.     Nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord's command,     Avails t' unclasp the cold and closèd hand.       Thy voice to disenthrall,     Dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side!     Veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride,       Whom men "To-morrow" call.     Oh, to-morrow! who may dare       Its realities to scan?     God to-morrow brings to bear       What to-day is sown by man.     'Tis the lightning in its shroud,     'Tis the star-concealing cloud,     Traitor, 'tis his purpose showing,     Engine, lofty tow'rs o'erthrowing,     Wand'ring star, its region changing,     "Lady of kingdoms," ever ranging.       To-morrow! 'Tis the rude display     Of the throne's framework, blank and cold,     That, rich with velvet, bright with gold,       Dazzles the eye to-day.     To-morrow! 'tis the foaming war-horse falling;     To-morrow! thy victorious march appalling,       'Tis the red fires from Moscow's tow'rs that wave;     'Tis thine Old Guard strewing the Belgian plain;     'Tis the lone island in th' Atlantic main:       To-morrow! 'tis the grave!     Into capitals subdued       Thou mayst ride with gallant rein,     Cut the knots of civil feud       With the trenchant steel in twain;     With thine edicts barricade     Haughty Thames' o'er-freighted trade;     Fickle Victory's self enthrall,     Captive to thy trumpet call;     Burst the stoutest gates asunder;     Leave the names of brightest wonder,       Pale and dim, behind thee far;     And to exhaustless armies yield     Thy glancing spur, – o'er Europe's field       A glory-guiding star.     God guards duration, if lends space to thee,     Thou mayst o'er-range mundane immensity,       Rise high as human head can rise sublime,     Snatch Europe from the stamp of Charlemagne,     Asia from Mahomet; but never gain       Power o'er the Morrow from the Lord of Time!Fraser's Magazine.

THE EAGLET MOURNED

("Encore si ce banni n'eût rien aimé sur terre.")

{V, iv., August, 1832.}

     Too hard Napoleon's fate! if, lone,     No being he had loved, no single one,         Less dark that doom had been.     But with the heart of might doth ever dwell     The heart of love! and in his island cell         Two things there were – I ween.     Two things – a portrait and a map there were —     Here hung the pictured world, an infant there:     That framed his genius, this enshrined his love.     And as at eve he glanced round th' alcove,     Where jailers watched his very thoughts to spy,     What mused he then– what dream of years gone by     Stirred 'neath that discrowned brow, and fired that glistening eye?     'Twas not the steps of that heroic tale     That from Arcola marched to Montmirail         On Glory's red degrees;     Nor Cairo-pashas' steel-devouring steeds,     Nor the tall shadows of the Pyramids —         Ah! Twas not always these;     'Twas not the bursting shell, the iron sleet,     The whirlwind rush of battle 'neath his feet,         Through twice ten years ago,     When at his beck, upon that sea of steel     Were launched the rustling banners – there to reel         Like masts when tempests blow.     'Twas not Madrid, nor Kremlin of the Czar,     Nor Pharos on Old Egypt's coast afar,     Nor shrill réveillé's camp-awakening sound,     Nor bivouac couch'd its starry fires around,     Crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers,     Nor the red lancers 'mid their wood of spears     Blazing like baleful poppies 'mong the golden ears.     No – 'twas an infant's image, fresh and fair,     With rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there.         It lay beneath the smile,     Of her whose breast, soft-bending o'er its sleep,     Lingering upon that little lip doth keep         One pendent drop the while.     Then, his sad head upon his hands inclined,     He wept; that father-heart all unconfined,         Outpoured in love alone.     My blessing on thy clay-cold head, poor child.     Sole being for whose sake his thoughts, beguiled,         Forgot the world's lost throne.Fraser's Magazine

INVOCATION

{V, vi., August, 1832.}

     Say, Lord! for Thou alone canst tell     Where lurks the good invisible     Amid the depths of discord's sea —     That seem, alas! so dark to me!     Oppressive to a mighty state,     Contentions, feuds, the people's hate —     But who dare question that which fate         Has ordered to have been?     Haply the earthquake may unfold     The resting-place of purest gold,     And haply surges up have rolled         The pearls that were unseen!G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

OUTSIDE THE BALL-ROOM

("Ainsi l'Hôtel de Ville illumine.")

{VI., May, 1833.}

     Behold the ball-room flashing on the sight,     From step to cornice one grand glare of light;     The noise of mirth and revelry resounds,     Like fairy melody on haunted grounds.     But who demands this profuse, wanton glee,     These shouts prolonged and wild festivity —     Not sure our city – web, more woe than bliss,     In any hour, requiring aught but this!     Deaf is the ear of all that jewelled crowd     To sorrow's sob, although its call be loud.     Better than waste long nights in idle show,     To help the indigent and raise the low —     To train the wicked to forsake his way,     And find th' industrious work from day to day!     Better to charity those hours afford,     Which now are wasted at the festal board!     And ye, O high-born beauties! in whose soul     Virtue resides, and Vice has no control;     Ye whom prosperity forbids to sin,     So fair without – so chaste, so pure within —     Whose honor Want ne'er threatened to betray,     Whose eyes are joyous, and whose heart is gay;     Around whose modesty a hundred arms,     Aided by pride, protect a thousand charms;     For you this ball is pregnant with delight;     As glitt'ring planets cheer the gloomy night: —     But, O, ye wist not, while your souls are glad,     How millions wander, homeless, sick and sad!     Hazard has placed you in a happy sphere,     And like your own to you all lots appear;     For blinded by the sun of bliss your eyes     Can see no dark horizon to the skies.     Such is the chance of life! Each gallant thane,     Prince, peer, and noble, follow in your train; —     They praise your loveliness, and in your ear     They whisper pleasing things, but insincere;     Thus, as the moths enamoured of the light,     Ye seek these realms of revelry each night.     But as ye travel thither, did ye know     What wretches walk the streets through which you go.     Sisters, whose gewgaws glitter in the glare     Of your great lustre, all expectant there,     Watching the passing crowd with avid eye,     Till one their love, or lust, or shame may buy;     Or, with commingling jealousy and rage,     They mark the progress of your equipage;     And their deceitful life essays the while     To mask their woe beneath a sickly smile!G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

PRAYER FOR FRANCE

("O Dieu, si vous avez la France.")

{VII., August, 1832.}

     O God! if France be still thy guardian care,     Oh! spare these mercenary combats, spare!     The thrones that now are reared but to be broke;     The rights we render, and anon revoke;     The muddy stream of laws, ideas, needs,     Flooding our social life as it proceeds;     Opposing tribunes, even when seeming one —     Soft, yielding plaster put in place of stone;     Wave chasing wave in endless ebb and flow;     War, darker still and deeper in its woe;     One party fall'n, successor scarce preludes,     Than, straight, new views their furious feuds;     The great man's pressure on the poor for gold,     Rumors uncertain, conflicts, crimes untold;     Dark systems hatched in secret and in fear,     Telling of hate and strife to every ear,     That even to midnight sleep no peace is given,     For murd'rous cannon through our streets are driven.J.S. MACRAE.

TO CANARIS, THE GREEK PATRIOT

("Canaris! nous t'avons oublié.")

{VIII., October, 1832.}

     O Canaris! O Canaris! the poet's song     Has blameful left untold thy deeds too long!     But when the tragic actor's part is done,     When clamor ceases, and the fights are won,     When heroes realize what Fate decreed,     When chieftains mark no more which thousands bleed;     When they have shone, as clouded or as bright,     As fitful meteor in the heaven at night,     And when the sycophant no more proclaims     To gaping crowds the glory of their names, —     'Tis then the mem'ries of warriors die,     And fall – alas! – into obscurity,     Until the poet, in whose verse alone     Exists a world – can make their actions known,     And in eternal epic measures, show     They are not yet forgotten here below.     And yet by us neglected! glory gloomed,     Thy name seems sealed apart, entombed,     Although our shouts to pigmies rise – no cries     To mark thy presence echo to the skies;     Farewell to Grecian heroes – silent is the lute,     And sets your sun without one Memnon bruit?     There was a time men gave no peace     To cheers for Athens, Bozzaris, Leonidas, and Greece!     And Canaris' more-worshipped name was found     On ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart around.     But now is changed the scene! On hist'ry's page     Are writ o'er thine deeds of another age,     And thine are not remembered. – Greece, farewell!     The world no more thine heroes' deeds will tell.     Not that this matters to a man like thee!     To whom is left the dark blue open sea,     Thy gallant bark, that o'er the water flies,     And the bright planet guiding in clear skies;     All these remain, with accident and strife,     Hope, and the pleasures of a roving life,     Boon Nature's fairest prospects – land and main —     The noisy starting, glad return again;     The pride of freeman on a bounding deck     Which mocks at dangers and despises wreck,     And e'en if lightning-pinions cleave the sea,     'Tis all replete with joyousness to thee!     Yes, these remain! blue sky and ocean blue,     Thine eagles with one sweep beyond the view —     The sun in golden beauty ever pure,     The distance where rich warmth doth aye endure —     Thy language so mellifluously bland,     Mixed with sweet idioms from Italia's strand,     As Baya's streams to Samos' waters glide     And with them mingle in one placid tide.     Yes, these remain, and, Canaris! thy arms —     The sculptured sabre, faithful in alarms —     The broidered garb, the yataghan, the vest     Expressive of thy rank, to thee still rest!     And when thy vessel o'er the foaming sound     Is proud past storied coasts to blithely bound,     At once the point of beauty may restore     Smiles to thy lip, and smoothe thy brow once more.G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

POLAND

("Seule au pied de la tour.")

{IX., September, 1833.}

     Alone, beneath the tower whence thunder forth     The mandates of the Tyrant of the North,     Poland's sad genius kneels, absorbed in tears,     Bound, vanquished, pallid with her fears —     Alas! the crucifix is all that's left     To her, of freedom and her sons bereft;     And on her royal robe foul marks are seen     Where Russian hectors' scornful feet have been.     Anon she hears the clank of murd'rous arms, —     The swordsmen come once more to spread alarms!     And while she weeps against the prison walls,     And waves her bleeding arm until it falls,     To France she hopeless turns her glazing eyes,     And sues her sister's succor ere she dies.G.W.M. REYNOLDS.