Poems
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Poems
THE FEAST OF FREEDOM
("Lorsqu'à l'antique Olympe immolant l'evangile.")
{Bk. II. v., 1823.}
{There was in Rome one antique usage as follows: On the eve of the
execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet – at the prison
gate – known as the "Free Festival." – CHATEAUBRIAND'S "Martyrs."}
TO YE KINGS
When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold An idolatrous cause, Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout Of "the People's" applause. On the eve of that day of their evenings the last! At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast, Rich, unstinted, unpriced, That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled, With an ignorant pity the jailers would spread For the martyrs of Christ. Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine Fill'd his cup to the brim! Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose, Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose, All united for him! Every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse, In profusion procured was put forth to enhance The repast that they gave; And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight, Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night The elect of the grave. And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain, Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain The bloodthirsty arena; Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds And who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs Shame the restless hyena. They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve, In their turn on the morrow were destined to give To the lions their food; For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board, Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford, Death administering stood. Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power, But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour — 'Tis your knell that it rings! To the popular tiger a prey is decreed, And the maw of Republican hunger will feed On a banquet of Kings!"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK MAHONY)GENIUS
(DEDICATED TO CHATEAUBRIAND.)
{Bk. IV. vi., July, 1822.}
Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth, Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind, Bears Genius – treasure of celestial birth, Within his solitary soul enshrined. Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure, Like the undying vultures', will be driven Into his noble heart, that must endure Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven, Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven. Still though his destiny on earth may be Grief and injustice; who would not endure With joyful calm, each proffered agony; Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure? What mortal feeling kindled in his soul That clear celestial flame, so pure and high, O'er which nor time nor death can have control, Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly From sufferings whose reward is Immortality? No! though the clamors of the envious crowd Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise From the dull clod, borne by an effort proud Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities. 'Tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread, Reposing o'er the tempest, from that height Sees the clouds reel and roll above our head, While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight, More upward soars sublime in heaven's eternal light.MRS. TORRE HULMETHE GIRL OF OTAHEITE
("O! dis-moi, tu veux fuir?")
{Bk. IV, vii., Jan. 31, 1821.}
Forget? Can I forget the scented breath Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear; The strange awaking from a dream of death, The sudden thrill to find thee coming near? Our huts were desolate, and far away I heard thee calling me throughout the day, No one had seen thee pass, Trembling I came. Alas! Can I forget? Once I was beautiful; my maiden charms Died with the grief that from my bosom fell. Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms! Let there be no regrets and no farewell! Here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow, Here of thy fatherland we whispered low; Here, music, praise, and prayer Filled the glad summer air. Can I forget? Forget? My dear old home must I forget? And wander forth and hear my people weep, Far from the woods where, when the sun has set, Fearless but weary to thy arms I creep; Far from lush flow'rets and the palm-tree's moan I could not live. Here let me rest alone! Go! I must follow nigh, With thee I'm doomed to die, Never forget!CLEMENT SCOTTNERO'S INCENDIARY SONG
("Amis! ennui nous tue.")
{Bk. IV. xv., March, 1825.}
Aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred, Come to the novel feast I spread, thrice-consul, Nero, lord, The Caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony, Who plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy. My joyful call should instantly bring all who love me most, — For ne'er were seen such arch delights from Greek or Roman host; Nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite of cynic vaunts, Austere but lenient Seneca no "Ercles" bumper daunts; Nor where upon the Tiber floats Aglae in galley gay, 'Neath Asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous array; Nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy prefect flings A score of slaves, their fetters wreathed, to feed grim, greedy things. I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the whole town in a mass; Upon this tower we'll take our stand to watch the 'wildered pass; How paltry fights of men and beasts! here be my combatants, — The Seven Hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead the dance. This is more meet for him who rules to drive away his stress — He, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wilderness — But, haste! for night is darkling – soon, the festival it brings; Already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre wings, And mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling breaths; They tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted deaths; And 'neath caresses scorching hot the palaces decay — Oh, that I, too, could thus caress, and burn, and blight, and slay! Hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes! Are those real men or ghosts? The stillness spreads of Death abroad – down come the temple posts, Their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with silver waves To leap with hiss of thousand snakes where Tiber writhes and raves. All's lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues totter – crash! Spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust and ash. The victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north winds sound the horn To goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn. Proud capital! farewell for e'er! these flames nought can subdue — The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a bridge o'er hellish brew. 'Tis Nero's whim! how good to see Rome brought the lowest down; Yet, Queen of all the earth, give thanks for such a splendrous crown! When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule to thee; That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent knee. Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this "immortal star" Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished – oh, how far! How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark! The youth who fired Ephesus' fane falls low beneath my mark. The pangs of people – when I sport, what matters? – See them whirl About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl. Take from my brow this poor rose-crown – the flames have made it pine; If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with Cretan wine! I like not overmuch that red – good taste says "gild a crime?" "To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs" is – thanks! a hint sublime! I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she not offer prayers Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ? – to e'en a Jew, she dares! Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all; Alone I rest – except this pile, I leave no single hall. Yet I destroy to build anew, and Rome shall fairer shine — But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not divine. The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete — And, slaves, bring in fresh roses – what odor is more sweet?H.L. WILLIAMSREGRET
("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passé.")
{Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.}
Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind! Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined, Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find Ourselves alone again. Then, through the distant future's boundless space, We seek the lost companion of our days: "Return, return!" we cry, and lo, apace Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place Of that we mourn always. I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now, Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "Begone! Respect the cypress on my mournful brow, Lost Happiness hath left regret – but thouLeavest remorse, alone." Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire, O friends, that in your revelry appears! With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire, And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre When it is wet with tears. Each in his secret heart perchance doth own Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed; — Sufferers alike together and alone Are we; with many a grief to others known, How many unrevealed! Alas! for natural tears and simple pains, For tender recollections, cherished long, For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains, We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains Only for sport and song! Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace: In vain I strove their parting to delay; Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space, Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face Lightens, and fades away.Fraser's MagazineTHE MORNING OF LIFE
("Le voile du matin.")
{Bk. V. viii., April, 1822.}
The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks, Old towers gleam white in the ray, And already the glory so joyously seeks The lark that's saluting the day. Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair, Though, were you swept hence in the night, From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare At the sun rising newly as bright. But out of earth's trammels your soul would have flown Where glitters Eternity's stream, And you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown, As sunshine disperses a dream.BELOVED NAME
("Le parfum d'un lis.")
{Bk. V. xiii.}
The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light, The latest murmur of departing day, Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight, The mystic farewell of each hour at flight, The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay, — The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun; The thrilling accent of a voice we know, The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow, An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run, — The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh, Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame, — The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die, — The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie, Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME! Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine, Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound; Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine, The sacred word which at some hidden shrine, The selfsame voice forever makes resound! O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame, My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide, With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim, Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name, Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide, — Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing, Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear; To solemn harmonies attuned the string, As, music show'ring from his viewless wing, On heavenly airs some angel hovered near.CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY)THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD
("Oui, ce front, ce sourire.")
{Bk. V. xxii., November, 1825.}
That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair, Beseem my child, who weeps and plays: A heavenly spirit guards her ways, From whom she stole that mixture rare. Through all her features shining mild, The poet sees an angel there, The father sees a child. And by their flame so pure and bright, We see how lately those sweet eyes Have wandered down from Paradise, And still are lingering in its light. All earthly things are but a shade Through which she looks at things above, And sees the holy Mother-maid, Athwart her mother's glance of love. She seems celestial songs to hear, And virgin souls are whispering near. Till by her radiant smile deceived, I say, "Young angel, lately given, When was thy martyrdom achieved? And what name lost thou bear in heaven?"Dublin University Magazine.BALLADES. – 1823-28.
THE GRANDMOTHER
("Dors-tu? mère de notre mère.")
{III., 1823.}
"To die – to sleep." – SHAKESPEARE. Still asleep! We have been since the noon thus alone. Oh, the hours we have ceased to number! Wake, grandmother! – speechless say why thou art grown. Then, thy lips are so cold! – the Madonna of stone Is like thee in thy holy slumber. We have watched thee in sleep, we have watched thee at prayer, But what can now betide thee? Like thy hours of repose all thy orisons were, And thy lips would still murmur a blessing whene'er Thy children stood beside thee. Now thine eye is unclosed, and thy forehead is bent O'er the hearth, where ashes smoulder; And behold, the watch-lamp will be speedily spent. Art thou vexed? have we done aught amiss? Oh, relent! But – parent, thy hands grow colder! Say, with ours wilt thou let us rekindle in thine The glow that has departed? Wilt thou sing us some song of the days of lang syne? Wilt thou tell us some tale, from those volumes divine, Of the brave and noble-hearted? Of the dragon who, crouching in forest green glen, Lies in wait for the unwary — Of the maid who was freed by her knight from the den Of the ogre, whose club was uplifted, but then Turned aside by the wand of a fairy? Wilt thou teach us spell-words that protect from all harm, And thoughts of evil banish? What goblins the sign of the cross may disarm? What saint it is good to invoke? and what charm Can make the demon vanish? Or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book, So feared by hell and Satan; At its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look, At the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook, And the hymns and the prayers in Latin. Oft with legends of angels, who watch o'er the young, Thy voice was wont to gladden; Have thy lips yet no language – no wisdom thy tongue? Oh, see! the light wavers, and sinking, bath flung On the wall forms that sadden. Wake! awake! evil spirits perhaps may presume To haunt thy holy dwelling; Pale ghosts are, perhaps, stealing into the room — Oh, would that the lamp were relit! with the gloom These fearful thoughts dispelling. Thou hast told us our parents lie sleeping beneath The grass, in a churchyard lonely: Now, thine eyes have no motion, thy mouth has no breath, And thy limbs are all rigid! Oh, say, Is this death, Or thy prayer or thy slumber only? ENVOY. Sad vigil they kept by that grandmother's chair, Kind angels hovered o'er them — And the dead-bell was tolled in the hamlet – and there, On the following eve, knelt that innocent pair, With the missal-book before them."FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY).THE GIANT IN GLEE
("Ho, guerriers! je suis né dans le pays des Gaules.")
{V., March 11, 1825.}
Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls; O'er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like balls Of the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathed Ere in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed. Then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow, — A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow. He is weak, very old – he can scarcely uptear A young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear; But here's to replace him! – I can toy with his axe; As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax, And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees. How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze! I was still but a springald when, cleaving the Alps, I brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps, And my head, o'er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds, Where I captured the eagles and caged them by crowds. There were tempests! I blew them back into their source! And put out their lightnings! More than once in a course, Through the ocean I went wading after the whale, And stirred up the bottom as did never a gale. Fond of rambling, I hunted the shark 'long the beach, And no osprey in ether soared out of my reach; And the bear that I pinched 'twixt my finger and thumb, Like the lynx and the wolf, perished harmless and dumb. But these pleasures of childhood have lost all their zest; It is warfare and carnage that now I love best: The sounds that I wish to awaken and hear Are the cheers raised by courage, the shrieks due to fear; When the riot of flames, ruin, smoke, steel and blood, Announces an army rolls along as a flood, Which I follow, to harry the clamorous ranks, Sharp-goading the laggards and pressing the flanks, Till, a thresher 'mid ripest of corn, up I stand With an oak for a flail in my unflagging hand. Rise the groans! rise the screams! on my feet fall vain tears As the roar of my laughter redoubles their fears. I am naked. At armor of steel I should joke — True, I'm helmed – a brass pot you could draw with ten yoke. I look for no ladder to invade the king's hall — I stride o'er the ramparts, and down the walls fall, Till choked are the ditches with the stones, dead and quick, Whilst the flagstaff I use 'midst my teeth as a pick. Oh, when cometh my turn to succumb like my prey, May brave men my body snatch away from th' array Of the crows – may they heap on the rocks till they loom Like a mountain, befitting a colossus' tomb!Foreign Quarterly Review (adapted)THE CYMBALEER'S BRIDE
("Monseigneur le Duc de Bretagne.")
{VI., October, 1825.}
My lord the Duke of Brittany Has summoned his barons bold — Their names make a fearful litany! Among them you will not meet any But men of giant mould. Proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep, And steel-clad knight and peer, Whose forts are girt with a moat cut deep — But none excel in soldiership My own loved cymbaleer. Clashing his cymbals, forth he went, With a bold and gallant bearing; Sure for a captain he was meant, To judge his pride with courage blent, And the cloth of gold he's wearing. But in my soul since then I feel A fear in secret creeping; And to my patron saint I kneel, That she may recommend his weal To his guardian-angel's keeping. I've begged our abbot Bernardine His prayers not to relax; And to procure him aid divine I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine Three pounds of virgin wax. Our Lady of Loretto knows The pilgrimage I've vowed: "To wear the scallop I propose, If health and safety from the foes My lover be allowed." No letter (fond affection's gage!) From him could I require, The pain of absence to assuage — A vassal-maid can have no page, A liegeman has no squire. This day will witness, with the duke's, My cymbaleer's return: Gladness and pride beam in my looks, Delay my heart impatient brooks, All meaner thoughts I spurn. Back from the battlefield elate His banner brings each peer; Come, let us see, at the ancient gate, The martial triumph pass in state — With the princes my cymbaleer. We'll have from the rampart walls a glance Of the air his steed assumes; His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance, And on his head unceasing dance, In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes! Be quick, my sisters! dress in haste! Come, see him bear the bell, With laurels decked, with true love graced, While in his bold hands, fitly placed, The bounding cymbals swell! Mark well the mantle that he'll wear, Embroidered by his bride! Admire his burnished helmet's glare, O'ershadowed by the dark horsehair That waves in jet folds wide! The gypsy (spiteful wench!) foretold, With a voice like a viper hissing.(Though I had crossed her palm with gold), That from the ranks a spirit bold Would be to-day found missing. But I have prayed so much, I trust Her words may prove untrue; Though in a tomb the hag accurst Muttered: "Prepare thee for the worst!" Whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue. My joy her spells shall not prevent. Hark! I can hear the drums! And ladies fair from silken tent Peep forth, and every eye is bent On the cavalcade that comes! Pikemen, dividing on both flanks, Open the pageantry; Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks, And silk-robed barons lead the ranks — The pink of gallantry! In scarfs of gold the priests admire; The heralds on white steeds; Armorial pride decks their attire, Worn in remembrance of some sire Famed for heroic deeds. Feared by the Paynim's dark divan, The Templars next advance; Then the tall halberds of Lausanne, Foremost to stand in battle van Against the foes of France. Now hail the duke, with radiant brow, Girt with his cavaliers; Round his triumphant banner bow Those of his foe. Look, sisters, now! Here come the cymbaleers! She spoke – with searching eye surveyed Their ranks – then, pale, aghast, Sunk in the crowd! Death came in aid — 'Twas mercy to that loving maid — The cymbaleers had passed!"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY)BATTLE OF THE NORSEMEN AND THE GAELS
("Accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!")
{VII., September, 1825.}
Ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey! Ye wolves of war, make no delay! For foemen 'neath our blades shall fall Ere night may veil with purple pall. The evening psalms are nearly o'er, And priests who follow in our train Have promised us the final gain, And filled with faith our valiant corps. Let orphans weep, and widows brood! To-morrow we shall wash the blood Off saw-gapped sword and lances bent, So, close the ranks and fire the tent! And chill yon coward cavalcade With brazen bugles blaring loud, E'en though our chargers' neighing proud Already has the host dismayed. Spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds! On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds! Through helmet plumes the arrows flit, And plated breasts the pikeheads split. The double-axe fells human oaks, And like the thistles in the field See bristling up (where none must yield!) The points hewn off by sweeping strokes! We, heroes all, our wounds disdain; Dismounted now, our horses slain, Yet we advance – more courage show, Though stricken, seek to overthrow The victor-knights who tread in mud The writhing slaves who bite the heel, While on caparisons of steel The maces thunder – cudgels thud! Should daggers fail hide-coats to shred, Seize each your man and hug him dead! Who falls unslain will only make A mouthful to the wolves who slake Their month-whet thirst. No captives, none! We die or win! but should we die, The lopped-off hand will wave on high The broken brand to hail the sun!Авторизация