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

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