Sidor som bilder
PDF
ePub

Red-robed destruction far and wide extends
Her thousand arms, and summons all her fiends
To glut their fill, a gaunt and ghastly brood!
Their food is carnage, and their drink is blood;
Their music, wo: nor did that feast of hell
Fit concert want,-the conquerors' savage yell-
Their groans and shrieks whom sickness, age, or
wound,

Or changeless, fearless love in fatal durance bound.
While valour sternly sighs, while beauty weeps;
And vengeance, soon to wake like Samson, sleeps,
Shrouded in flame, the imperial city low
Like Dagon's temple falls-but falls to crush the foe!
Tyrant! think not she unavenged shall burn;
Thou too hast much to suffer, much to learn:
That thirst of power the Danube but inflamed,
By Neva's cooler current may be tamed.
Triumph a little space by craft and crime,
Two foes thou canst not conquer-Truth and time.
Resistless pair! they doom thy power to fade,
Lost in the ruins that itself hath made!
Or, damn'd to fame, like Babylon to scowl
O'er wastes where serpents hiss, hyenas howl.
Forge then the links of martial law, that bind,
Enslave, imbrute, and mechanise the mind;
Indite thy conscript code with iron pen,
That cancels crime, demoralizes men;
Thy false and fatal aid to virtue lend,
And start Washington, a Nero end;
And vainly strive to strangle in his youth
Freedom, the Herculean son of light and truth.
Stepfather foul!-thou to his infant bed

Didst steal, and drop a changeling in his stead.
-Yes, yes,-I see thee turn thy vaunting gaze,
Where files reflect to files the o'erpowering blaze;
Rather, like Xerxes, o'er those numbers sigh,
Braver than his, but sooner doom'd to die.
Here-number only courts that death it cloys!
Here-might is weakness, and herself destroys;
Lead then thy southern myriads lock'd in steel,
Lead on! too soon their nerveless arm shall feel
Those magazines impregnable of snow,
That kill without a wound, o'erwhelm without a foe!
I see thee,-'tis the bard's prophetic eye,
Blindly presumptuous chief,—I see thee fly!
While breathing skeletons, and bloodless dead,
Point to the thirsting foe the track you tread.
To seize was easy, and to march was plain;
Hard to retreat, and harder to retain.
Reft of thy trappings, pomp, and glittering gear,
Dearth in thy van,-destruction in thy rear,-
Like foil'd Darius, doom'd too late to know
The stern enigmas of a Scythian foe,—
Thy standard torn, while vengeful scorpions sting
The imperial bird, and cramp his flagging wing,-
The days are number'd of thy motley host,
Freedom's vain fear, oppression's vainer boast.
And lo! the Beresyna opens wide
His yawning mouth, his wintry weltering tide!
Expectant of his mighty meal, he flows

In silent ambush through his trackless snows:
There shall thy way-worn ranks despairing stand,
Like trooping spectres on the Stygian strand,
And curse their fate and thee,-and conquest sown
With retribution deep, in vain repentance moan!

Thy veteran worn by wounds, and years, and toils, Pilgrim of honour in all suns and soils! By thy ambition foully tempted forth To fight the frozen rigours of the north, Above complaint, indignant at his wrongs, Curses the morsel that his life prolongs, [sigh,Unpierced, unconquer'd sinks; yet breathes a For he had hoped a soldier's death to die. Was it for this that fatal hour he braved, When o'er the cross the conquering crescent waved? Was it for this he ploughed the western main, To weld the struggling negro's broken chain,— Faced his relentless hate, to frenzy fired; Stung by past wrongs, by present hopes inspired,— Then hurried home to lend his treacherous aid, And stain more deeply still the warrior's blade, When spoiled Iberia, roused to deeds sublime, Made vengeance virtue-clemency a crime; And 'scaped he these, to fall without a foe? The wolf his sepulchre-his shroud the snow!

'Tis morn!-but lo, the warrior-steed in vain The trumpet summons from the bloodless plain; Ne'er was he known till now to stand aloof, Still midst the slain was found his crimson hoof; And struggling still to join that well-known sound, He dies, ignobly dies, without a wound! Oft had he hailed the battle from afar, And paw'd to meet the rushing wreck of war! With reinless neck the danger oft had braved, And crush'd the foe-his wounded rider saved; Oft had the rattling spear and sword assail'd His generous heart, and had as often fail'd: That heart no more life's frozen current thaws, Brave, guiltless champion, in a guilty cause! One northern night more hideous work hath done Than whole campaigns beneath a southern sun. Spoil'd child of fortune! could the murder'd

Turk

Or wronged Iberian view thy ghastly work,
They'd sheathe the vengeful blade, and clearly see
France needs no deadlier, direr curse than thee.
War hath fed war!-such was thy dread behest,
Now view the iron fragments of the feast.
Oh, if to cause and witness others' grief
Unmoved, be firmness-thou art Stoa's chief!
Thy fell recorded boast, all Zeno said
Outdoes-"I wear my heart within my head!".
Caught in the northern net, what darest thou dare?
Snatch might from madness? courage from despair?
If courage lend thy breast a transient ray,
"T is the storm's lightning-not the beam of day:
When on thine hopes the cloud of battle lowers,
And frowns the vengeance of insulted powers;
When victory trembles in the doubtful scale,
And death deals thick and fast his iron hail;
When all is staked, and the dread hazard known,
A rising scaffold, and a falling throne!
Then, can thy dastard soul some semblance wear
Of manhood's stamp-when fear hath conquer'd
fear!

Canst thou be brave? whose dying prospects show A scene of all that's horrible in wo!

On whose ambition, long by carnage nursed, Death stamps the greatest change-the last, the worst!

Death!-to thy view most terrible of things,
Dreadful in all he takes and all he brings!
-But, King of Terrors! ere thou seize thy prey,
Point with a lingering dart to Moscow's fatal day;
Shake with that scene his agonizing frame,
And on the wreck of nations write his name!
Oh, when will conquerors from example learn,
Or truth from aught but self-experience earn?
How many Catos must be wept again!
How many Cæsars sacrificed in vain!
While Europe dozed-too aged to be taught—
The historic lesson young Columbia caught,
Enraptured hung o'er that inspiring theme,
Conn'd it by wood, by mountain, and by stream,
Till every Grecian, Roman name, the morn
Of freedom hail'd,-and Washington was born!
I see thee redden at that mighty name,
That fills the herd of conquerors with shame:
But ere we part, Napoleon! deign to hear
The bodings of thy future dark career;
Fate to the poet trusts her iron leaf,
Fraught with thy ruin-read it and be brief,-
Then to thy senate flee, to tell the tale

Of Russia's full revenge, Gaul's deep indignant wail.
-It is thy doom false greatness to pursue,
Rejecting, and rejected by, the true;
A stirling name, thrice proffered, to refuse;
And highest means pervert to lowest views;
Till fate and fortune-finding that thou 'rt still
Untaught by all their good and all their ill,
Expell'd, recall'd, reconquer'd—all in vain,—
Shall sink thee to thy nothingness again.
Though times, occasions, chances, foes and friends,
Urged thee to purest fame, by purest ends,
In this alone be great-to have withstood
Such varied, vast temptations to be good!
As hood-wink'd falcons boldest pierce the skies,
The ambition that is blindest highest flies;
And thine still waked by night, still dream'd by day,
To rule o'er kings, as these o'er subjects sway;
Nor dared thy mitred Mentor set thee right:
Thou art not Philip's son-nor he the Stagyrite!

And lo, thy dread, thy hate! the Queen of Isles,
Frowns at thy guilt, and at thy menace smiles;
Free of her treasure, freer of her blood,
She summons all the brave, the great, the good.
But ill befits her praise my partial line,
Enough for me to boast-that land is mine.-

And last, to fix thy fate and seal thy doom,
Her bugle note shall Scotia stern resume, [plume:
Shall grasp her Highland brand, her plaided bonnet
From hill and dale, from hamlet, heath, and wood,
She pours her dark, resistless battle-flood.
Breathe there a race, that from the approving hand
Of nature, more deserve, or less demand?

So skill'd to wake the lyre, or wield the sword;
To achieve great actions, or, achieved-record;
Victorious in the conflict as the truce,-
Triumphant in a Burns as in a Bruce!
Where'er the bay, where'er the laurel grows,
Their wild notes warble, and their life-blood flows.
There, truth courts access, and would all engage,
Lavish as youth-experienced as age;
Proud science there, with purest nature twined,
In firmest thraldom holds the freest mind;

While courage rears his limbs of giant form,
Rock'd by the blast, and strengthen'd by the storm!
Rome fell; and freedom to her craggy glen
Transferr'd that title proud-The nurse of men!
By deeds of hazard high, and bold emprize,
Train'd like their native eagle for the skies,-
Untamed by toil, unconquer'd till they're slain;
Walls in their trenches-whirlwinds on the plain,
This meed accept from Albion's grateful breath,
Brothers in arms! in victory! in death!—
Such are thy foes, Napoleon, when time
Wakes vengeance, sure concomitant of crime.
Fixed, like Prometheus, to thy rock, o'erpower'd
By force, by vulture-conscience slow devour'd;
With godlike power, but fiendlike rage, no more
To drench the world-thy reeking stage-in gore;
Fit but o'er shame to triumph and to rule;
And proved in all things-but in danger-cool;
That found'st a nation melted to thy will,
And freedom's place didst with thine image fill;
Skill'd not to govern, but obey the storm,
To catch the tame occasion, not to form;
Victorious only when success pursued,

But when thou followed'st her, as quick subdued:
The first to challenge, as the first to run;
Whom death and glory both consent to shun-
Live! that thy body and thy soul may be
Foes that can't part, and friends that can't agree.-
Live! to be numbered with that common herd,
Who life's base boon unto themselves preferred,—
Live! till each dazzled fool hath understood
That nothing can be great that is not good.
And when remorse, for blood in torrents spilt,
Shall sting-to madness-conscious, sleepless guilt,
May deep contrition this black hope repel,—
Snatch me, thou future, from this present, hell!

Give me the mind that, bent on highest aim,
Deems virtue's rugged path sole path to fame;
Great things with small compares, in scale sublime,
And death with life! eternity with time:
Man's whole existence weighs, sifts nature's laws,
And views results in the embryo of their cause;
Prepared to meet, with corresponding deeds,
Events, as yet imprisoned in their seeds;
Kens, in his acorn hid, the king of trees,
And freedom's germ in foul oppression sees;
Precedes the march of time-to ponder fate,
And execute, while others meditate;
That, deaf to present praise, the servile knee
Rebukes, and says to glory-Follow me!

LIFE.

How long shall man's imprison'd spirit groan
"Twixt doubt of heaven and deep disgust of earth?
Where all worth knowing never can be known,
And all that can be known, alas! is nothing worth.
Untaught by saint, by cynic, or by sage,

And all the spoils of time that load their shelves, We do not quit, but change our joys in ageJoys framed to stifle thought, and lead us from ourselves.

The drug, the cord, the steel, the flood, the flame,
Turmoil of action, tedium of rest,

And lust of change, though for the worst, proclaim
How dull life's banquet is: how ill at ease the guest.
Known were the bill of fare before we taste,
Who would not spurn the banquet and the board-
Prefer th' eternal, but oblivious fast,

[sword?
To life's frail-fretted thread, and death's suspended
He that the topmost stone of Babel plann'd,
And he that braved the crater's boiling bed-
Did these a clearer, closer view command
Of heaven or hell, we ask, than the blind herd they
Or he that in Valdarno did prolong

[led?

The night her rich star-studded page to readCould he point out, midst all that brilliant throng, His fixed and final home, from fleshy thraldom freed?

Minds that have scann'd creation's vast domain, And secrets solved, till then to sages seal'd, Whilst nature own'd their intellectual reign Extinct, have nothing known or nothing have revealed.

Devouring grave! we might the less deplore

Th' extinguish'd lights that in thy darkness dwell, Wouldst thou, from that last zodiac, one restore, That might th' enigma solve, and doubt, man's tyrant, quell.

To live in darkness-in despair to die

Is this indeed the boon to mortals given? Is there no port-no rock of refuge nigh? [heaven. There is to those who fix their anchor-hope in Turn then, O man! and cast all else aside: Direct thy wandering thoughts to things aboveLow at the cross bow down-in that confide, Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured in love.

IRREGULAR ODE, ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON.

WE mourn thy wreck ;-that mighty mind
Did whirlwind passions whelm,

While wisdom waver'd, half inclined
To quit the dangerous helm;
Thou wast an argosy of cost,
Equipp'd, enrich'd in vain,

Of gods the work-of men the boast,
Glory thy port,-and doomed to gain
That splendid haven, only to be lost!

Lost, even when Greece, with conquest blest,
Thy gallant bearing hail'd:-

Then sighs from valour's mailed breast,

And tears of beauty fail'd;

Oh! hadst thou in the battle died,

Triumphant even in death,

The patriot's as the poet's pride,

While both Minervas twined thy wreath,

Then had thy full career malice and fate defied!

What architect, with choice design,

-Of Rome or Athens styled

Ere left a monument like thine?

And all from ruins piled!

A prouder motto marks thy stone Than Archimedes' tomb;

He asked a fulcrum-thou demandest none,
But-reckless of past, present, and to come-
Didst on thyself depend, to shake the world-alone!

Thine eye to all extremes and ends
And opposites could turn,
And, like the congelated lens,

Could sparkle, freeze, or burn ;But in thy mind's abyss profound,

As in some limbo vast,

More shapes and monsters did abound,
To set the wondering world aghast,
Than wave-worn Noah fed, or starry Tuscan found!

Was love thy lay,-Cithara rein'd

Her car, and own'd the spell!
Was hate thy theme,-that murky fiend
For hotter earth left hell!

The palaced crown, the cloister'd cowl,
Moved but thy spleen or mirth;
Thy smile was deadlier than thy scowl,

In guise unearthly didst thou roam the earth,
Screen'd in Thalia's mask,—to drug the tragic bowl!

Lord of thine own imperial sky,

In virgin "pride of place,"

Thou soared'st where others could not fly,
And hardly dared to gaze !—
The condor, thus, his pennon'd vane

O'er Cotopaxa spreads,

But-should he ken the prey, or scent the slain,Nor chilling height nor burning depth he dreads, From Andes' crystal crag, to Lima's sultry plain!

Like Lucan's, early was thy tomb,

And more than Bion's mourn'd ;-
For, still, such lights themselves consume,
The brightest, briefest burn'd:-
But from thy blazing shield recoiled
Pale envy's bolt of lead;

She, but to work thy triumphs, toil'd,

And, muttering coward curses, fled;

Thee, thine own strength alone-like matchless
Milo-foil'd.

We prize thee, that thou didst not fear
What stoutest hearts might rack,
And didst the diamond genius wear,

That tempts-yet foils-the attack.
We mourn thee, that thou wouldst not find,
While prison'd in thy clay,

-Since such there were,-some kindred mind,-
For friendship lasts through life's long day,
And doth, with surer chain than love or beauty, bind!

We blame thee, that with baleful light

Thou didst astound the world,
-A comet, plunging from its height,
And into chaos hurl'd!-
Accorded king of anarch power,

And talent misapplied;

That hid thy God, in evil hour,

Or showed Him only to deride,

[lour!

And, o'er the gifted blaze of thine own brightness,

Thy fierce volcanic breast, o'ercast
With Hecla's frosty cloak,

All earth with fire impure could blast,
And darken heaven with smoke:
O'er ocean, continent, and isle,

The conflagration ran:

Thou, from thy throne of ice, the while,
Didst the red ruin calmly scan,

And tuned Apollo's harp-with Nero's ghastly smile!

What now avails that muse of fire,

Her nothing of a name !

Thy master hand and matchless lyre, What have they gained-but fame!

Fame-Fancy's child-by folly fed,
On breath of meanest things,-
A phantom, wooed in virtue's stead,
That envy to the living brings,
And silent, solemn mockery to the dead!

Ne'er, since the deep-toned Theban sung
Unto the listening nine,-

Has classic hill or valley rung

With harmony like thine!

Who now shall wake thy willow'd lyre!
-There breathes but one, who dares
To that Herculean task aspire;

But-less than thou-for fame he cares, [desire!
And scorns both hope and fear-ambition and

JOHN KENYON.

JOHN KENYON, the descendant of a highly respectable Anglo-West Indian family, was born, we believe, in Jamaica, and educated at the Charter-house and Cambridge. On quitting the university, he went abroad, visited various parts of the European continent, and resided for some time in Italy. Returning from his travels, he settled in England, dividing his time between London and the country, between his books and his friends; among the

latter enumerating WORDSWORTH, SOUTHEY, COLERIDGE, and many of the most distinguished persons of the age.

The only works of Mr. KENYON with which we are acquainted, are a "Rhymed Plea for Tolerance," and "Poems, for the most part Occasional;" the first published in 1833, and the last in 1838. His productions are generally of a serious, didactic sort, philosophical and liberal, and carefully versified.

TO THE MOON.

THAT peace, how deep! this night of thousand stars,

That hide themselves abash'd from the bold sun,
But hang, all fondly, on thy gentler brow,-
How calm! Yet not o'er calmer skies alone,
Mild Moon! is thy dominion: Thou dost sway
The very storm to obey thy peacefulness.
When winds are piping, and the charged clouds,
As if out-summon'd by that warlike music,
First in black squadrons rush; then sternly muster
In sullen mass, on either side the heaven,
Like armies face to face, with space between ;
'Tis then Thou glidest forth; like some pale nun,
Unhooded, whom a high and rare occasion
Wrests from her sanctuary, to interpose
In mortal quarrel, so thou glidest forth,
And lookest thy mild bidding; and the winds
'Are silent; and those close-compacted clouds,
Disbanding, fleet in tender flakes away,
And leave the world to thy tranquillity.

And ne'er did dawn behold thee lovelier yet, Than when we saw thee, one remember'd day, Thee and that brightest of all morning-stars, Hang o'er the Adrian; not in thy full lustre, But graceful with slim crescent; such as, erst, Some Arab chief beheld in his own sky

Of purest, deepest azure; and so loved it,
So loved it, that he chose it for his symbol;
A peaceful symbol on a warlike banner!
And oft, I ween, in many a distant camp,
Mid the sharp neigh of steeds, and clash of cymbals,
And jingle of the nodding Moorish bells,
When he hath caught that image o'er the tents,
Hath he bethought him of the placid hours
When thou wast whitening his night-feeding flocks
On Yemen's happy hills; and then, perchance,
Hath sigh'd to think of war! We too beheld thee
With untired eye fix'd upward; scarce regarding
(So deep the charm which thou hadst wrapp'd
around us)

Where reddening lines along the eastward sea
Spoke of the sun's uprising. Up he rose,
From o'er the regions of the near Illyria,
Glorious, how glorious!—if less gladly hail'd
As warning thy departure. Yet, some time,
Ye shone together; and we then might feel
How they, the ancient masters of that land,
The dwellers on the banks of Rubicon,
Who saw what we were seeing, uninstruct'
Of wiser faith, had, in no feign'd devotion,
Bow'd down to thee, their Dian, and to him
Bright-hair'd Apollo! We, too, bow'd our hearts,
But in a purer worship, to the One,

Who made, alone, the hills and seas and skies,

And thee, fair moon, the hallower of them all!
-Well did that sun fulfil his rising promise,
Showering redundant light, the livelong day,
O'er plain, and inland peak, and bluest sea;
And brightening the far mole, which old Ancona
Hath rear'd upon the waves. Meanwhile, thy form
(Faint and more faint, and, if might be, more fair;
And still, as near to lose thee, loved the more)
Thinn'd to unseen. But as some morning dream,
Too sweet to part with, and which yet must fade
At touch of light, will oft unconsciously
Mix with the day, serener thoughts inweaving
Than sunbeams bring; or, as some melody,
Closed on the ear, nor e'en by it remember'd,
Will still its silent agency prolong
Upon the spirit, with a hoarded sweetness
Tempering the after-mood; e'en so did'st thou
Waft the bland influence of thy dawning presence
Over the onward hours. Yet, thou sphered vestal!
If mine it were to choose me when to bend
Before thy high-hung lamp; and venerate
Thy mysteries; and feel, not hear, the voice
Of thy mute admonition; let it be
At holy vesper-tide, when nature all
Whispers of peace; if solemn less than night's,
More soothing still. Such season of the soul
Obeys thee best. For as the unwrinkled pool,
Still'd o'er by stirless eve, will dimple under
The tiniest brushing of an insect's wing;
So, at that hour, do human hearts respond
To every touch of finer thought.....Such eve
Such blessed eve was ours, when last we stood
Beside the storied shore of Gaëta,

Breathing its citron'd air. Silence more strict
Was never. The small wave, or ripple rather,
Scarce lisping up the sand, crept to the ear, [ment
Sole sound; nor did we break the calm with move-
Or sacrilege of word; but stay'd in peace,
Of thee expectant. And what need had been
Of voiced language, when the silent eye,
And silent pressure of each link'd arm,

Spoke more than utterance? Nay, whose tongue

might tell

What hues were garlanding the western sky
To welcome thy approaching! Purple hues
With orange wove, and many a floating lake
Crimson or rose, with that last tender green
Which best relieves thy beauty. Who may paint
How glow'd those hills, with depth of ruddy light
Translucified, and half ethereal made,

For thy white feet to tread on? and, ere long,-
E'er yet those hues had left or sky or hill,
One peak with pearling top confess'd thy coming.
There didst thou pause awhile, as inly musing
O'er realm so fair! And, first, thy rays fell partial
On many a scatter'd object, here and there;
Edging or tipping, with fantastic gleam,
The sword-like aloe, or the tent-roof'd pine,
Or adding a yet paler pensiveness

To the pale olive-tree; or, yet more near us,
Were flickering back from wall reticulate'
Of ruin old. But when that orb of thine
Had clomb to the mid-concave, then broad light

Was flung around o'er all those girding cliffs
And groves, and villages, and fortress towers,
And the far circle of that lake-like sea,
Till the whole grew to one expanded sense
Of peacefulness, one atmosphere of love,
Where the soul breathed as native, and mere body
Sublimed to spirit...... She, too, stood beside us,
Our human type of thee; the pure, the peaceful,
The gentle,-potent in her gentleness!
And, as she raised her eyes to thy meek glory,
In the fond aspiration of a heart,

Which prized all beauty and all sanctity;
We saw, and loved to see, thy sainting ray
Fall, as in fondness, on her upturn'd brow,
Serene, like it. Alas! in how brief space
Coldly to glitter on her marble tomb!

She lies in her own land; far from the scene
Of that fair eve; but thou, its fairer part,
Thou moon! art here; and now we gaze on thee
To think on her; if still in sorrow, yet
Not without hope; and, for the time to come,
Though dear to us thy light hath ever been,
Shall love thee yet the more for her sweet sake.

THE BROKEN APPOINTMENT.

I SOUGHT at morn the beechen bower,
Thy verdant grot;

It came, it went,-the promised hour,-
I found thee not.

Light zephyrs from the quivering boughs Soon brush'd the transient dew, Then first I fear'd that Dove's own vows Were transient too!

At eve I sought the well-known stream Where, wont to rove,

We breathed so oft, by twilight gleam,
Our vows of love;

I stopp'd upon the pleasant brink,
And saw the wave glide past;
Ah me! I could not help but think
Love glides as fast.

Then, all along the moonlight glen
So soft, so fair,-

I sought thy truant steps agen,—
Thou wert not there.

The clouds held on their busy way
Athwart the waning moon;
And such, I said, Love's fitful ray,
And wanes as soon.

Oh! I had cull'd for thee a wreath
Of blossoms rare;

But now each floweret droops beneath
The chill night-air.

'Tis past,-long past, our latest hour,
And yet thou art not nigh;
Oh! Love, thou art indeed a flower
Born but to die!

« FöregåendeFortsätt »