"Love her? at least, I know I am most lonely Without her nigh; I'm but a hound to follow her, and only At her feet die. I'd gayly spend of toilsome years a dozen— A felon styled— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"One summer day when long—so long? I'd missed her, She came anew, To play i' the fount alone but for her sister, And bared to view The finest, rosiest, most tempting ankle, Like that of child— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"When I beheld her, I—a lowly shepherd— Grew in my mind Till I was Caesar—she that crowned leopard He crouched behind, No Roman stern, but in her silken leashes A captive mild— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"Yet dance and sing, tho' night be thickly falling;— In selfsame time Poor Sabine heard in ecstasy the calling, In winning rhyme, Of Saldane's earl so noble, ay, and wealthy, Name e'er reviled— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"(Let me upon this bench be shortly resting, So weary, I!) That noble bore her smiling, unresisting, By yonder high And ragged road that snakes towards the summit Where crags are piled— Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"I saw her pass beside my lofty station— A glance—'twas all! And yet I loathe my daily honest ration, The air's turned gall! My soul's in chase, my body chafes to wander— My dagger's filed— Oh! this chill wind may change, and o'er the mountain May drive me wild!"

HENRY L. WILLIAMS.



GUITAR SONG.

("Comment, disaient-ils.")

[XXIII., July 18, 1838.]

How shall we flee sorrow—flee sorrow? said he. How, how! How shall we flee sorrow—flee sorrow? said he. How—how—how? answered she.

How shall we see pleasure—see pleasure? said he. How, how! How shall we see pleasure—see pleasure? said he. Dream—dream—dream! answered she.

How shall we be happy—be happy? said he. How, how! How shall we be happy—be happy? said he. Love—love—love! whispered she.

EVELYN JERROLD



COME WHEN I SLEEP.

("Oh, quand je dors.")

[XXVII.]

Oh! when I sleep, come near my resting-place, As Laura came to bless her poet's heart, And let thy breath in passing touch my face— At once a space My lips will part.

And on my brow where too long weighed supreme A vision—haply spent now—black as night, Let thy look as a star arise and beam— At once my dream Will seem of light.

Then press my lips, where plays a flame of bliss— A pure and holy love-light—and forsake The angel for the woman in a kiss— At once, I wis, My soul will wake!

WM. W. TOMLINSON.



EARLY LOVE REVISITED.

("O douleur! j'ai voulu savoir.")

[XXXIV. i., October, 183-.]

I have wished in the grief of my heart to know If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear, And to see what this beautiful valley could show Of all that was once to my soul most dear. In how short a span doth all Nature change, How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene— And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range, The links that bound our hearts to the scene.

Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste; The fir is felled that our names once bore; Our rows of roses, by urchins' haste, Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er. The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride, She so gayly drank, from the wood descending; In her fairy hand was transformed the tide, And it turned to pearls through her fingers wending

The wild, rugged path is paved with spars, Where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced, When so small were the prints that the surface mars, That they seemed to smile ere by mine effaced. The bank on the side of the road, day by day, Where of old she awaited my loved approach, Is now become the traveller's way To avoid the track of the thundering coach.

Here the forest contracts, there the mead extends, Of all that was ours, there is little left— Like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds, Of all souvenirs is the place bereft. Do we live no more—is our hour then gone? Will it give back naught to our hungry cry? The breeze answers my call with a mocking tone, The house that was mine makes no reply.

True! others shall pass, as we have passed, As we have come, so others shall meet, And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste, Shall others continue, but never complete. For none upon earth can achieve his scheme, The best as the worst are futile here: We awake at the selfsame point cf the dream— All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.

Yes! others shall come in the bloom of the heart, To enjoy in this pure and happy retreat, All that nature to timid love can impart Of solemn repose and communion sweet. In our fields, in our paths, shall strangers stray, In thy wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost, And other fair forms in the stream shall play Which of old thy delicate feet have crossed.

Author of "Critical Essays."



SWEET MEMORY OF LOVE.

("Toutes les passions s'eloignent avec l'age.")

[XXXIV. ii., October, 183-.]

As life wanes on, the passions slow depart, One with his grinning mask, one with his steel; Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art, Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill. But naught can Love's all charming power efface, That light, our misty tracks suspended o'er, In joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace, The young may curse thee, but the old adore.

But when the weight of years bow down the head, And man feels all his energies decline, His projects gone, himself tomb'd with the dead, Where virtues lie, nor more illusions shine, When all our lofty thoughts dispersed and o'er, We count within our hearts so near congealed, Each grief that's past, each dream, exhausted ore! As counting dead upon the battle-field.

As one who walks by the lamp's flickering blaze, Far from the hum of men, the joys of earth— Our mind arrives at last by tortuous ways, At that drear gulf where but despair has birth. E'en there, amid the darkness of that night, When all seems closing round in empty air, Is seen through thickening gloom one trembling light! 'Tis Love's sweet memory that lingers there!

Author of "Critical Essays."



THE MARBLE FAUN.

("Il semblait grelotter.")

[XXXVI., December, 1837.]

He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen. 'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass Of leafless branches, with a blackened back And a green foot—an isolated Faun In old deserted park, who, bending forward, Half-merged himself in the entangled boughs, Half in his marble settings. He was there, Pensive, and bound to earth; and, as all things Devoid of movement, he was there—forgotten.

Trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts— Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird, And, like himself, grown old in that same place. Through the dark network of their undergrowth, Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown. Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist. This—nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood.

Poor, helpless marble, how I've pitied it! Less often man—the harder of the two.

So, then, without a word that might offend His ear deformed—for well the marble hears The voice of thought—I said to him: "You hail From the gay amorous age. O Faun, what saw you When you were happy? Were you of the Court?

"Speak to me, comely Faun, as you would speak To tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass. Have you, O Greek, O mocker of old days, Have you not sometimes with that oblique eye Winked at the Farnese Hercules?—Alone, Have you, O Faun, considerately turned From side to side when counsel-seekers came, And now advised as shepherd, now as satyr?— Have you sometimes, upon this very bench, Seen, at mid-day, Vincent de Paul instilling Grace into Gondi?—Have you ever thrown That searching glance on Louis with Fontange, On Anne with Buckingham; and did they not Start, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forth From corner of the wood?—Was your advice As to the thyrsis or the ivy asked, When, in grand ballet of fantastic form, God Phoebus, or God Pan, and all his court, Turned the fair head of the proud Montespan, Calling her Amaryllis?—La Fontaine, Flying the courtiers' ears of stone, came he, Tears on his eyelids, to reveal to you The sorrows of his nymphs of Vaux?—What said Boileau to you—to you—O lettered Faun, Who once with Virgil, in the Eclogue, held That charming dialogue?—Say, have you seen Young beauties sporting on the sward?—Have you Been honored with a sight of Moliere In dreamy mood?—Has he perchance, at eve, When here the thinker homeward went, has he, Who—seeing souls all naked—could not fear Your nudity, in his inquiring mind, Confronted you with Man?"

Under the thickly-tangled branches, thus Did I speak to him; he no answer gave.

I shook my head, and moved myself away; Then, from the copses, and from secret caves Hid in the wood, methought a ghostly voice Came forth and woke an echo in my souls As in the hollow of an amphora.

"Imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say, "What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken Fauns In peace beneath their trees! Dost thou not know, Poet, that ever it is impious deemed, In desert spots where drowsy shades repose— Though love itself might prompt thee—to shake down The moss that hangs from ruined centuries, And, with the vain noise of throe ill-timed words, To mar the recollections of the dead?"

Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist I hurried, dreaming of the vanished days, And still behind me—hieroglyph obscure Of antique alphabet—the lonely Faun Held to his laughter, through the falling night.

I went my way; but yet—in saddened spirit Pondering on all that had my vision crossed, Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time— Through all, at distance, would my fancy see, In the woods, statues; shadows in the past!

WILLIAM YOUNG



A LOVE FOR WINGED THINGS.

[XXXVII., April 12, 1840.]

My love flowed e'er for things with wings. When boy I sought for forest fowl, And caged them in rude rushes' mesh, And fed them with my breakfast roll; So that, though fragile were the door, They rarely fled, and even then Would flutter back at faintest call!

Man-grown, I charm for men.



BABY'S SEASIDE GRAVE.

("Vieux lierre, frais gazon.")

[XXXVIII., 1840.]

Brown ivy old, green herbage new; Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle; An ancient chapel where a crew, Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle. A far-off forest's darkling frown, Which makes the prudent start and tremble, Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down, And clouds in demon hordes assemble.

Land birds which twit the mews that scream Round walls where lolls the languid lizard; Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream Past caves fit for an ocean wizard. Alow, aloft, no lull—all life, But far aside its whirls are keeping, As wishfully to let its strife Spare still the mother vainly weeping O'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping.



LES CHATIMENTS.—1853.



INDIGNATION!

("Toi qu'aimais Juvenal.")

[Nox (PRELUDE) ix., Jersey, November, 1852.]

Thou who loved Juvenal, and filed His style so sharp to scar imperial brows, And lent the lustre lightening The gloom in Dante's murky verse that flows— Muse Indignation! haste, and help My building up before this roseate realm, And its so fruitless victories, Whence transient shame Right's prophets overwhelm, So many pillories, deserved! That eyes to come will pry without avail, Upon the wood impenetrant, And spy no glimmer of its tarnished tale.



IMPERIAL REVELS.

("Courtisans! attables dans le splendide orgie.")

[Bk. I. x., Jersey, December, 1852.]

Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread— The board that groans with shame and plate, Still fawning to the sham-crowned head That hopes front brazen turneth fate! Drink till the comer last is full, And never hear in revels' lull, Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet, Whilst I gnaw at the crust Of Exile in the dust— But Honor makes it sweet!

Ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane, Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief, In blazing cafes spend the gain, But draw the blind, lest at his thief Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance And interrupts with steel the dance! But let him toilsomely tramp by, As I myself afar Follow no gilded car In ways of Honesty.

Ye troopers who shot mothers down, And marshals whose brave cannonade Broke infant arms and split the stone Where slumbered age and guileless maid— Though blood is in the cup you fill, Pretend it "rosy" wine, and still Hail Cannon "King!" and Steel the "Queen!" But I prefer to sup From Philip Sidney's cup— True soldier's draught serene.

Oh, workmen, seen by me sublime, When from the tyrant wrenched ye peace, Can you be dazed by tinselled crime, And spy no wolf beneath the fleece? Build palaces where Fortunes feast, And bear your loads like well-trained beast, Though once such masters you made flee! But then, like me, you ate Food of a blessed fete— The bread of Liberty!

H.L.W.



POOR LITTLE CHILDREN.

("La femelle! elle est morte.")

[Bk. I. xiii., Jersey, February, 1853.]

Mother birdie stiff and cold, Puss has hushed the other's singing; Winds go whistling o'er the wold,— Empty nest in sport a-flinging. Poor little birdies!

Faithless shepherd strayed afar, Playful dog the gadflies catching; Wolves bound boldly o'er the bar, Not a friend the fold is watching— Poor little lambkins!

Father into prison fell, Mother begging through the parish; Baby's cot they, too, will sell,— Who will now feed, clothe and cherish? Poor little children!



APOSTROPHE TO NATURE.

("O Soleil!")

[Bk. II. iv., Anniversary of the Coup d'Etat, 1852.]

O Sun! thou countenance divine! Wild flowers of the glen, Caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine Has pierced not, far from men; Ye sacred hills and antique rocks, Ye oaks that worsted time, Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks Hurl up in storms sublime; And sky above, unruflfed blue, Chaste rills that alway ran From stainless source a course still true, What think ye of this man?



NAPOLEON "THE LITTLE."

("Ah! tu finiras bien par hurler!")

[Bk. III. ii., Jersey, August, 1852.]

How well I knew this stealthy wolf would howl, When in the eagle talons ta'en in air! Aglow, I snatched thee from thy prey—thou fowl— I held thee, abject conqueror, just where All see the stigma of a fitting name As deeply red as deeply black thy shame! And though thy matchless impudence may frame Some mask of seeming courage—spite thy sneer, And thou assurest sloth and skunk: "It does not smart!" Thou feel'st it burning, in and in,—and fear None will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart!



FACT OR FABLE?

(BISMARCK AND NAPOLEON III.)

("Un jour, sentant un royal appetit.")

[Bk. III. iii., Jersey, September, 1852.]

One fasting day, itched by his appetite, A monkey took a fallen tiger's hide, And, where the wearer had been savage, tried To overpass his model. Scratch and bite Gave place, however, to mere gnash of teeth and screams, But, as he prowled, he made his hearers fly With crying often: "See the Terror of your dreams!" Till, for too long, none ventured thither nigh. Left undisturbed to snatch, and clog his brambled den, With sleepers' bones and plumes of daunted doves, And other spoil of beasts as timid as the men, Who shrank when he mock-roared, from glens and groves— He begged his fellows view the crannies crammed with pelf Sordid and tawdry, stained and tinselled things, As ample proof he was the Royal Tiger's self! Year in, year out, thus still he purrs and sings Till tramps a butcher by—he risks his head— In darts the hand and crushes out the yell, And plucks the hide—as from a nut the shell— He holds him nude, and sneers: "An ape you dread!"

H.L.W.



A LAMENT.

("Sentiers ou l'herbe se balance.")

[Bk. III. xi., July, 1853.]

O paths whereon wild grasses wave! O valleys! hillsides! forests hoar! Why are ye silent as the grave? For One, who came, and comes no more!

Why is thy window closed of late? And why thy garden in its sear? O house! where doth thy master wait? I only know he is not here.

Good dog! thou watchest; yet no hand Will feed thee. In the house is none. Whom weepest thou? child! My father. And O wife! whom weepest thou? The Gone.

Where is he gone? Into the dark.— O sad, and ever-plaining surge! Whence art thou? From the convict-bark. And why thy mournful voice? A dirge.

EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I.



NO ASSASSINATION.

("Laissons le glaive a Rome.")

[Bk. III. xvi., October, 1852.]

Pray Rome put up her poniard! And Sparta sheathe the sword; Be none too prompt to punish, And cast indignant word! Bear back your spectral Brutus From robber Bonaparte; Time rarely will refute us Who doom the hateful heart.

Ye shall be o'ercontented, My banished mates from home, But be no rashness vented Ere time for joy shall come. No crime can outspeed Justice, Who, resting, seems delayed— Full faith accord the angel Who points the patient blade.

The traitor still may nestle In balmy bed of state, But mark the Warder, watching His guardsman at his gate. He wears the crown, a monarch— Of knaves and stony hearts; But though they're blessed by Senates, None can escape the darts!

Though shored by spear and crozier, All know the arrant cheat, And shun the square of pavement Uncertain at his feet! Yea, spare the wretch, each brooding And secret-leaguers' chief, And make no pistol-target Of stars upon the thief.

The knell of God strikes seldom But in the aptest hour; And when the life is sweetest, The worm will feel His power!



THE DESPATCH OF THE DOOM.

("Pendant que dans l'auberge.")

[Bk. IV. xiii., Jersey, November, 1852.]

While in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink, Upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink? Yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring sturdy steed, A mute and grisly rider is trampling grass and weed, And by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear, I known it is the Future—God's Justicer is here!



THE SEAMAN'S SONG.

("Adieu, patrie.")

[Bk. V. ix., Aug. 1, 1852.]

Farewell the strand, The sails expand Above! Farewell the land We love! Farewell, old home where apples swing! Farewell, gay song-birds on the wing!

Farewell, riff-raff Of Customs' clerks who laugh And shout: "Farewell!" We'll quaff One bout To thee, young lass, with kisses sweet! Farewell, my dear—the ship flies fleet!

The fog shuts out the last fond peep, As 'neath the prow the cast drops weep. Farewell, old home, young lass, the bird! The whistling wind alone is heard: Farewell! Farewell!



THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW.

("Il neigeait.")

[Bk. V. xiii., Nov. 25-30, 1852.]

It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red! For once the eagle was hanging its head. Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black. The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain. Nor chief nor banner in order could keep, The wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep. The wings from centre could hardly be known Through snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown, Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn: Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad. The shells and bullets came down with the snow As though the heavens hated these poor troops below. Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold, Who ne'er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold Marched stern; to grizzled moustache hoarfrost clung 'Neath banners that in leaden masses hung.

It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breeze Whistled upon the glassy endless seas, Where naked feet on, on for ever went, With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent. They were not living troops as seen in war, But merely phantoms of a dream, afar In darkness wandering, amid the vapor dim,— A mystery; of shadows a procession grim, Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim. Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold, A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense, A shroud of magnitude for host immense; Till every one felt as if left alone In a wide wilderness where no light shone, To die, with pity none, and none to see That from this mournful realm none should get free. Their foes the frozen North and Czar—That, worst. Cannon were broken up in haste accurst To burn the frames and make the pale fire high, Where those lay down who never woke or woke to die. Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread.

'Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised O'er regiments. And History, amazed, Could not record the ruin of this retreat, Unlike a downfall known before or the defeat Of Hannibal—reversed and wrapped in gloom! Of Attila, when nations met their doom! Perished an army—fled French glory then, Though there the Emperor! he stood and gazed At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw— He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe. Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love Kept those that rose all dastard fear above, As on his tent they saw his shadow pass— Backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas! His fortune's star! it could not, could not be That he had not his work to do—a destiny? To hurl him headlong from his high estate, Would be high treason in his bondman, Fate. But all the while he felt himself alone, Stunned with disasters few have ever known. Sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul, What more was written on the Future's scroll? Was this an expiation? It must be, yea! He turned to God for one enlightening ray. "Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?" he sighed, But the first murmur on his parched lips died. "Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?" A pause: his name was called; of flame a jet Sprang in the darkness;—a Voice answered; "No! Not yet."

Outside still fell the smothering snow. Was it a voice indeed? or but a dream? It was the vulture's, but how like the sea-bird's scream.

TORU DUTT.



THE OCEAN'S SONG.

("Nous nous promenions a Rozel-Tower.")

[Bk. VI. iv., October, 1852.]

We walked amongst the ruins famed in story Of Rozel-Tower, And saw the boundless waters stretch in glory And heave in power.

O ocean vast! we heard thy song with wonder, Whilst waves marked time. "Appeal, O Truth!" thou sang'st with tone of thunder, "And shine sublime!

"The world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles,— To despots sold, Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles, The Right uphold.

"Be born; arise; o'er earth and wild waves bounding Peoples and suns! Let darkness vanish;—tocsins be resounding, And flash, ye guns!

"And you,—who love no pomps of fog, or glamour, Who fear no shocks, Brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamor, Exiles—the rocks!"

TORU DUTT



THE TRUMPETS OF THE MIND.

("Sonnez, clairons de la pensee!")

[Bk. VII. i., March 19, 1853.]

Sound, sound for ever, Clarions of Thought!

When Joshua 'gainst the high-walled city fought, He marched around it with his banner high, His troops in serried order following nigh, But not a sword was drawn, no shaft outsprang, Only the trumpets the shrill onset rang. At the first blast, smiled scornfully the king, And at the second sneered, half wondering: "Hop'st thou with noise my stronghold to break down?" At the third round, the ark of old renown Swept forward, still the trumpets sounding loud, And then the troops with ensigns waving proud. Stepped out upon the old walls children dark With horns to mock the notes and hoot the ark. At the fourth turn, braving the Israelites, Women appeared upon the crenelated heights— Those battlements embrowned with age and rust— And hurled upon the Hebrews stones and dust, And spun and sang when weary of the game. At the fifth circuit came the blind and lame, And with wild uproar clamorous and high Railed at the clarion ringing to the sky. At the sixth time, upon a tower's tall crest, So high that there the eagle built his nest, So hard that on it lightning lit in vain, Appeared in merriment the king again: "These Hebrew Jews musicians are, meseems!" He scoffed, loud laughing, "but they live on dreams." The princes laughed submissive to the king, Laughed all the courtiers in their glittering ring, And thence the laughter spread through all the town.

At the seventh blast—the city walls fell down.

TORU DUTT.



AFTER THE COUP D'ETAT.

("Devant les trahisons.")

[Bk. VII, xvi., Jersey, Dec. 2, 1852.]

Before foul treachery and heads hung down, I'll fold my arms, indignant but serene. Oh! faith in fallen things—be thou my crown, My force, my joy, my prop on which I lean:

Yes, whilst he's there, or struggle some or fall, O France, dear France, for whom I weep in vain. Tomb of my sires, nest of my loves—my all, I ne'er shall see thee with these eyes again.

I shall not see thy sad, sad sounding shore, France, save my duty, I shall all forget; Amongst the true and tried, I'll tug my oar, And rest proscribed to brand the fawning set.

O bitter exile, hard, without a term, Thee I accept, nor seek nor care to know Who have down-truckled 'mid the men deemed firm, And who have fled that should have fought the foe.

If true a thousand stand, with them I stand; A hundred? 'tis enough: we'll Sylla brave; Ten? put my name down foremost in the band; One?—well, alone—until I find my grave.

TORU DUTT.



PATRIA.[1]

("La-haut, qui sourit.")

[Bk. VII. vii., September, 1853.]

Who smiles there? Is it A stray spirit, Or woman fair? Sombre yet soft the brow! Bow, nations, bow; O soul in air, Speak—what art thou?

In grief the fair face seems— What means those sudden gleams? Our antique pride from dreams Starts up, and beams Its conquering glance,— To make our sad hearts dance, And wake in woods hushed long The wild bird's song. Angel of Day! Our Hope, Love, Stay, Thy countenance Lights land and sea Eternally, Thy name is France Or Verity.

Fair angel in thy glass When vile things move or pass, Clouds in the skies amass; Terrible, alas! Thy stern commands are then: "Form your battalions, men, The flag display!" And all obey. Angel of might Sent kings to smite, The words in dark skies glance, "Mene, Mene," hiss Bolts that never miss! Thy name is France, Or Nemesis.

As halcyons in May, O nations, in his ray Float and bask for aye, Nor know decay! One arm upraised to heaven Seals the past forgiven; One holds a sword To quell hell's horde, Angel of God! Thy wings stretch broad As heaven's expanse! To shield and free Humanity! Thy name is France, Or Liberty!

[Footnote 1: Written to music by Beethoven.]



THE UNIVERSAL REPUBLIC.

("Temps futurs.")

[Part "Lux," Jersey, Dec. 16-20, 1853.]

O vision of the coming time! When man has 'scaped the trackless slime And reached the desert spring; When sands are crossed, the sward invites The worn to rest 'mid rare delights And gratefully to sing.

E'en now the eye that's levelled high, Though dimly, can the hope espy So solid soon, one day; For every chain must then be broke, And hatred none will dare evoke, And June shall scatter May.

E'en now amid our misery The germ of Union many see, And through the hedge of thorn, Like to a bee that dawn awakes, On, Progress strides o'er shattered stakes, With solemn, scathing scorn.

Behold the blackness shrink, and flee! Behold the world rise up so free Of coroneted things! Whilst o'er the distant youthful States, Like Amazonian bosom-plates, Spread Freedom's shielding wings.

Ye, liberated lands, we hail! Your sails are whole despite the gale! Your masts are firm, and will not fail— The triumph follows pain! Hear forges roar! the hammer clanks— It beats the time to nations' thanks— At last, a peaceful strain!

'Tis rust, not gore, that gnaws the guns, And shattered shells are but the runs Where warring insects cope; And all the headsman's racks and blades And pincers, tools of tyrants' aids, Are buried with the rope.

Upon the sky-line glows i' the dark The Sun that now is but a spark; But soon will be unfurled— The glorious banner of us all, The flag that rises ne'er to fall, Republic of the World!



LES CONTEMPLATIONS.—1830-56.



THE VALE TO YOU, TO ME THE HEIGHTS.

A FABLE.

[Bk. III. vi., October, 1846.]

A lion camped beside a spring, where came the Bird Of Jove to drink: When, haply, sought two kings, without their courtier herd, The moistened brink, Beneath the palm—they always tempt pugnacious hands— Both travel-sore; But quickly, on the recognition, out flew brands Straight to each core; As dying breaths commingle, o'er them rose the call Of Eagle shrill: "Yon crowned couple, who supposed the world too small, Now one grave fill! Chiefs blinded by your rage! each bleached sapless bone Becomes a pipe Through which siroccos whistle, trodden 'mong the stone By quail and snipe. Folly's liege-men, what boots such murd'rous raid, And mortal feud? I, Eagle, dwell as friend with Leo—none afraid— In solitude: At the same pool we bathe and quaff in placid mood. Kings, he and I; For I to him leave prairie, desert sands and wood, And he to me the sky."

H.L.W.



CHILDHOOD.

("L'enfant chantait.")

[Bk. I. xxiii., Paris, January, 1835.]

The small child sang; the mother, outstretched on the low bed, With anguish moaned,—fair Form pain should possess not long; For, ever nigher, Death hovered around her head: I hearkened there this moan, and heard even there that song.

The child was but five years, and, close to the lattice, aye Made a sweet noise with games and with his laughter bright; And the wan mother, aside this being the livelong day Carolling joyously, coughed hoarsely all the night.

The mother went to sleep 'mong them that sleep alway; And the blithe little lad began anew to sing... Sorrow is like a fruit: God doth not therewith weigh Earthward the branch strong yet but for the blossoming.

NELSON R. TYERMAN.



SATIRE ON THE EARTH.

("Une terre au flanc maigre.")

[Bk. III. xi., October, 1840.]

A clod with rugged, meagre, rust-stained, weather-worried face, Where care-filled creatures tug and delve to keep a worthless race; And glean, begrudgedly, by all their unremitting toil, Sour, scanty bread and fevered water from the ungrateful soil; Made harder by their gloom than flints that gash their harried hands, And harder in the things they call their hearts than wolfish bands, Perpetuating faults, inventing crimes for paltry ends, And yet, perversest beings! hating Death, their best of friends! Pride in the powerful no more, no less than in the poor; Hatred in both their bosoms; love in one, or, wondrous! two! Fog in the valleys; on the mountains snowfields, ever new, That only melt to send down waters for the liquid hell, In which, their strongest sons and fairest daughters vilely fell! No marvel, Justice, Modesty dwell far apart and high, Where they can feebly hear, and, rarer, answer victims' cry. At both extremes, unflinching frost, the centre scorching hot; Land storms that strip the orchards nude, leave beaten grain to rot; Oceans that rise with sudden force to wash the bloody land, Where War, amid sob-drowning cheers, claps weapons in each hand. And this to those who, luckily, abide afar— This is, ha! ha! a star!



HOW BUTTERFLIES ARE BORN.

("Comme le matin rit sur les roses.")

[Bk. I. xii.]

The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses—lo, the little lovers— That kiss the buds and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings That go and come, and fly, and peep, and hide With muffled music, murmured far and wide! Ah, Springtime, when we think of all the lays That dreamy lovers send to dreamy Mays, Of the proud hearts within a billet bound, Of all the soft silk paper that men wound, The messages of love that mortals write, Filled with intoxication of delight, Written in April, and before the Maytime Shredded and flown, playthings for the winds' playtime. We dream that all white butterflies above, Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, And leave their lady mistress to despair, To flirt with flowers, as tender and more fair, Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.

A. LANG.



HAVE YOU NOTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?

("Si vous n'avez rien a me dire.")

[Bk. II. iv., May, 18—.]

Speak, if you love me, gentle maiden! Or haunt no more my lone retreat. If not for me thy heart be laden, Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?

Ah! tell me why so mute, fair maiden, Whene'er as thus so oft we meet? If not for me thy heart be, Aideen, Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?

Why, when my hand unconscious pressing, Still keep untold the maiden dream? In fancy thou art thus caressing The while we wander by the stream.

If thou art pained when I am near thee, Why in my path so often stray? For in my heart I love yet fear thee, And fain would fly, yet fondly stay.

C.H. KENNY.



INSCRIPTION FOR A CRUCIFIX.[1]

("Vous qui pleurez, venez a ce Dieu.")

[Bk. III. iv., March, 1842.]

Ye weepers, the Mourner o'er mourners behold! Ye wounded, come hither—the Healer enfold! Ye gloomy ones, brighten 'neath smiles quelling care— Or pass—for this Comfort is found ev'rywhere.

[Footnote 1: Music by Gounod.]



DEATH, IN LIFE.

("Ceux-ci partent.")

[Bk. III. v., February, 1843.]

We pass—these sleep Beneath the shade where deep-leaved boughs Bend o'er the furrows the Great Reaper ploughs, And gentle summer winds in many sweep Whirl in eddying waves The dead leaves o'er the graves.

And the living sigh: Forgotten ones, so soon your memories die. Ye never more may list the wild bird's song, Or mingle in the crowded city-throng. Ye must ever dwell in gloom, 'Mid the silence of the tomb.

And the dead reply: God giveth us His life. Ye die, Your barren lives are tilled with tears, For glory, ye are clad with fears. Oh, living ones! oh, earthly shades! We live; your beauty clouds and fades.



THE DYING CHILD TO ITS MOTHER.

("Oh! vous aurez trop dit.")

[Bk. III. xiv., April, 1843.]

Ah, you said too often to your angel There are other angels in the sky— There, where nothing changes, nothing suffers, Sweet it were to enter in on high.

To that dome on marvellous pilasters, To that tent roofed o'er with colored bars, That blue garden full of stars like lilies, And of lilies beautiful as stars.

And you said it was a place most joyous, All our poor imaginings above, With the winged cherubim for playmates, And the good God evermore to love.

Sweet it were to dwell there in all seasons, Like a taper burning day and night, Near to the child Jesus and the Virgin, In that home so beautiful and bright.

But you should have told him, hapless mother, Told your child so frail and gentle too, That you were all his in life's beginning, But that also he belonged to you.

For the mother watches o'er the infant, He must rise up in her latter days, She will need the man that was her baby To stand by her when her strength decays.

Ah, you did not tell enough your darling That God made us in this lower life, Woman for the man, and man for woman, In our pains, our pleasures and our strife.

So that one sad day, O loss, O sorrow! The sweet creature left you all alone; 'Twas your own hand hung the cage door open, Mother, and your pretty bird is flown.

BP. ALEXANDER.



EPITAPH.

("Il vivait, il jouait.")

[Bk. III. xv., May, 1843.]

He lived and ever played, the tender smiling thing. What need, O Earth, to have plucked this flower from blossoming? Hadst thou not then the birds with rainbow-colors bright, The stars and the great woods, the wan wave, the blue sky? What need to have rapt this child from her thou hadst placed him by— Beneath those other flowers to have hid this flower from sight?

Because of this one child thou hast no more of might, O star-girt Earth, his death yields thee not higher delight! But, ah! the mother's heart with woe for ever wild, This heart whose sovran bliss brought forth so bitter birth— This world as vast as thou, even thou, O sorrowless Earth, Is desolate and void because of this one child!

NELSON K. TYERMAN.



ST. JOHN.

("Un jour, le morne esprit.")

[Bk. VI. vii., Jersey, September, 1855.]

One day, the sombre soul, the Prophet most sublime At Patmos who aye dreamed, And tremblingly perused, without the vast of Time, Words that with hell-fire gleamed,

Said to his eagle: "Bird, spread wings for loftiest flight— Needs must I see His Face!" The eagle soared. At length, far beyond day and night, Lo! the all-sacred Place!

And John beheld the Way whereof no angel knows The name, nor there hath trod; And, lo! the Place fulfilled with shadow that aye glows Because of very God.

NELSON R. TYERMAN.



THE POET'S SIMPLE FAITH.

You say, "Where goest thou?" I cannot tell, And still go on. If but the way be straight, It cannot go amiss! before me lies Dawn and the Day; the Night behind me; that Suffices me; I break the bounds; I see, And nothing more; believe, and nothing less. My future is not one of my concerns.

PROF. E. DOWDEN.



I AM CONTENT.

("J'habite l'ombre.")

[1855.]

True; I dwell lone, Upon sea-beaten cape, Mere raft of stone; Whence all escape Save one who shrinks not from the gloom, And will not take the coward's leap i' the tomb.

My bedroom rocks With breezes; quakes in storms, When dangling locks Of seaweed mock the forms Of straggling clouds that trail o'erhead Like tresses from disrupted coffin-lead.

Upon the sky Crape palls are often nailed With stars. Mine eye Has scared the gull that sailed To blacker depths with shrillest scream, Still fainter, till like voices in a dream.

My days become More plaintive, wan, and pale, While o'er the foam I see, borne by the gale, Infinity! in kindness sent— To find me ever saying: "I'm content!"



LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES.



CAIN.

("Lorsque avec ses enfants Cain se fut enfui.")

[Bk. II]

Then, with his children, clothed in skins of brutes, Dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm, Cain fled before Jehovah. As night fell The dark man reached a mount in a great plain, And his tired wife and his sons, out of breath, Said: "Let us lie down on the earth and sleep." Cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot. Raising his head, in that funereal heaven He saw an eye, a great eye, in the night Open, and staring at him in the gloom. "I am too near," he said, and tremblingly woke up His sleeping sons again, and his tired wife, And fled through space and darkness. Thirty days He went, and thirty nights, nor looked behind; Pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound; No rest, no sleep, till he attained the strand Where the sea washes that which since was Asshur. "Here pause," he said, "for this place is secure; Here may we rest, for this is the world's end." And he sat down; when, lo! in the sad sky, The selfsame Eye on the horizon's verge, And the wretch shook as in an ague fit. "Hide me!" he cried; and all his watchful sons, Their finger on their lip, stared at their sire. Cain said to Jabal (father of them that dwell In tents): "Spread here the curtain of thy tent," And they spread wide the floating canvas roof, And made it fast and fixed it down with lead. "You see naught now," said Zillah then, fair child The daughter of his eldest, sweet as day. But Cain replied, "That Eye—I see it still." And Jubal cried (the father of all those That handle harp and organ): "I will build A sanctuary;" and he made a wall of bronze, And set his sire behind it. But Cain moaned, "That Eye is glaring at me ever." Henoch cried: "Then must we make a circle vast of towers, So terrible that nothing dare draw near; Build we a city with a citadel; Build we a city high and close it fast." Then Tubal Cain (instructor of all them That work in brass and iron) built a tower— Enormous, superhuman. While he wrought, His fiery brothers from the plain around Hunted the sons of Enoch and of Seth; They plucked the eyes out of whoever passed, And hurled at even arrows to the stars. They set strong granite for the canvas wall, And every block was clamped with iron chains. It seemed a city made for hell. Its towers, With their huge masses made night in the land. The walls were thick as mountains. On the door They graved: "Let not God enter here." This done, And having finished to cement and build In a stone tower, they set him in the midst. To him, still dark and haggard, "Oh, my sire, Is the Eye gone?" quoth Zillah tremblingly. But Cain replied: "Nay, it is even there." Then added: "I will live beneath the earth, As a lone man within his sepulchre. I will see nothing; will be seen of none." They digged a trench, and Cain said: "'Tis enow," As he went down alone into the vault; But when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair, And they had closed the dungeon o'er his head, The Eye was in the tomb and fixed on Cain.

Dublin University Magazine



BOAZ ASLEEP.

("Booz s'etait couche.")

[Bk. II. vi.]

At work within his barn since very early, Fairly tired out with toiling all the day, Upon the small bed where he always lay Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.

Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well, Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.

His beard was silver, as in April all A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook. When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look, Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall."

He walked his way of life straight on and plain, With justice clothed, like linen white and clean, And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween, Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain.

Good master, faithful friend, in his estate Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth He won regard of woman, for in sooth The young man may be fair—the old man's great.

Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright, The old man entereth, the day eterne; And in the young man's eye a flame may burn, But in the old man's eye one seeth light.

As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided, Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided A fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep.

And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad, Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain. His race ran up it far, like a long chain; Below it sung a king, above it died a God.

Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart, "The number of my years is past fourscore: How may this be? I have not any more, Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part.

"In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine; And she, half living, I half dead within, Our beings still commingle and are twin, It cannot be that I should found a line!

"Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound From night, as from a victory. But such A trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round.

"I bow myself to death, as lone to meet The water bow their fronts athirst." He said. The cedar feeleth not the rose's head, Nor he the woman's presence at his feet!

For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth Lay at his feet, expectant of his waking. He knowing not what sweet guile she was making; She knowing not what God would have in sooth.

Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring— Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast The angels sped, for momently there passed A something blue which seemed to be a wing.

Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur— The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows. Far west among those flowers of the shadows. The thin clear crescent lustrous over her,

Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comer Unto the harvest of the eternal summer, Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.

BP. ALEXANDER.



SONG OF THE GERMAN LANZKNECHT

("Sonnex, clarions!")

[Bk. VI. vii.]

Flourish the trumpet! and rattle the drum! The Reiters are mounted! the Reiters will come!

When our bullets cease singing And long swords cease ringing On backplates of fearsomest foes in full flight, We'll dig up their dollars To string for girls' collars— They'll jingle around them before it is night! When flourish the trumpets, etc.

We're the Emperor's winners Of right royal dinners, Where cities are served up and flanked by estates, While we wallow in claret, Knowing not how to spare it, Though beer is less likely to muddle our pates— While flourish the trumpets, etc.

Gods of battle! red-handed! Wise it was to have banded Such arms as are these for embracing of gain! Hearken to each war-vulture Crying, "Down with all culture Of land or religion!" Hoch! to our refrain Of flourish the trumpets, etc.

Give us "bones of the devil" To exchange in our revel The ingot, the gem, and yellow doubloon; Coronets are but playthings— We reck not who say things When the Reiters have ridden to death! none too soon!— To flourish of trumpet and rattle of drum, The Reiters will finish as firm as they come!

H.L.W.



KING CANUTE.

("Un jour, Kanut mourut.")

[Bk. X. i.]

King Canute died.[1] Encoffined he was laid. Of Aarhuus came the Bishop prayers to say, And sang a hymn upon his tomb, and held That Canute was a saint—Canute the Great, That from his memory breathed celestial perfume, And that they saw him, they the priests, in glory, Seated at God's right hand, a prophet crowned.

I.

Evening came, And hushed the organ in the holy place, And the priests, issuing from the temple doors, Left the dead king in peace. Then he arose, Opened his gloomy eyes, and grasped his sword, And went forth loftily. The massy walls Yielded before the phantom, like a mist.

There is a sea where Aarhuus, Altona, And Elsinore's vast domes and shadowy towers Glass in deep waters. Over this he went Dark, and still Darkness listened for his foot Inaudible, itself being but a dream. Straight to Mount Savo went he, gnawed by time, And thus, "O mountain buffeted of storms, Give me of thy huge mantle of deep snow To frame a winding-sheet." The mountain knew him, Nor dared refuse, and with his sword Canute Cut from his flank white snow, enough to make The garment he desired, and then he cried, "Old mountain! death is dumb, but tell me thou The way to God." More deep each dread ravine And hideous hollow yawned, and sadly thus Answered that hoar associate of the clouds: "Spectre, I know not, I am always here." Canute departed, and with head erect, All white and ghastly in his robe of snow, Went forth into great silence and great night By Iceland and Norway. After him Gloom swallowed up the universe. He stood A sovran kingdomless, a lonely ghost Confronted with Immensity. He saw The awful Infinite, at whose portal pale Lightning sinks dying; Darkness, skeleton Whose joints are nights, and utter Formlessness Moving confusedly in the horrible dark Inscrutable and blind. No star was there, Yet something like a haggard gleam; no sound But the dull tide of Darkness, and her dumb And fearful shudder. "'Tis the tomb," he said, "God is beyond!" Three steps he took, then cried: 'Twas deathly as the grave, and not a voice Responded, nor came any breath to sway The snowy mantle, with unsullied white Emboldening the spectral wanderer. Sudden he marked how, like a gloomy star, A spot grew broad upon his livid robe; Slowly it widened, raying darkness forth; And Canute proved it with his spectral hands It was a drop of blood.

R. GARNETT.

II.

But he saw nothing; space was black—no sound. "Forward," said Canute, raising his proud head. There fell a second stain beside the first, Then it grew larger, and the Cimbrian chief Stared at the thick vague darkness, and saw naught. Still as a bloodhound follows on his track, Sad he went on. 'There fell a third red stain On the white winding-sheet. He had never fled; Howbeit Canute forward went no more, But turned on that side where the sword arm hangs. A drop of blood, as if athwart a dream, Fell on the shroud, and reddened his right hand. Then, as in reading one turns back a page, A second time he changed his course, and turned To the dim left. There fell a drop of blood. Canute drew back, trembling to be alone, And wished he had not left his burial couch. But, when a blood-drop fell again, he stopped, Stooped his pale head, and tried to make a prayer. Then fell a drop, and the prayer died away In savage terror. Darkly he moved on, A hideous spectre hesitating, white, And ever as he went, a drop of blood Implacably from the darkness broke away And stained that awful whiteness. He beheld Shaking, as doth a poplar in the wind, Those stains grow darker and more numerous: Another, and another, and another. They seem to light up that funereal gloom, And mingling in the folds of that white sheet, Made it a cloud of blood. He went, and went, And still from that unfathomable vault The red blood dropped upon him drop by drop, Always, for ever—without noise, as though From the black feet of some night-gibbeted corpse. Alas! Who wept those formidable tears? The Infinite!—Toward Heaven, of the good Attainable, through the wild sea of night, That hath not ebb nor flow, Canute went on, And ever walking, came to a closed door, That from beneath showed a mysterious light. Then he looked down upon his winding-sheet, For that was the great place, the sacred place, That was a portion of the light of God, And from behind that door Hosannas rang. The winding-sheet was red, and Canute stopped. This is why Canute from the light of day Draws ever back, and hath not dared appear Before the Judge whose face is as the sun. This is why still remaineth the dark king Out in the night, and never having power To bring his robe back to its first pure state, But feeling at each step a blood-drop fall, Wanders eternally 'neath the vast black heaven.

Dublin University Magazine

[Footnote 1: King Canute slew his old father, Sweno, to obtain the crown.]



THE BOY-KING'S PRAYER.

("Le cheval galopait toujours.")

[Bk. XV. ii. 10.]

The good steed flew o'er river and o'er plain, Till far away,—no need of spur or rein. The child, half rapture, half solicitude, Looks back anon, in fear to be pursued; Shakes lest some raging brother of his sire Leap from those rocks that o'er the path aspire.

On the rough granite bridge, at evening's fall, The white horse paused by Compostella's wall, ('Twas good St. James that reared those arches tall,) Through the dim mist stood out each belfry dome, And the boy hailed the paradise of home.

Close to the bridge, set on high stage, they meet A Christ of stone, the Virgin at his feet. A taper lighted that dear pardoning face, More tender in the shade that wrapped the place, And the child stayed his horse, and in the shine Of the wax taper knelt down at the shrine.

"O, my good God! O, Mother Maiden sweet!" He said, "I was the worm beneath men's feet; My father's brethren held me in their thrall, But Thou didst send the Paladin of Gaul, O Lord! and show'dst what different spirits move The good men and the evil; those who love And those who love not. I had been as they, But Thou, O God! hast saved both life and soul to-day. I saw Thee in that noble knight; I saw Pure light, true faith, and honor's sacred law, My Father,—and I learnt that monarchs must Compassionate the weak, and unto all be just. O Lady Mother! O dear Jesus! thus Bowed at the cross where Thou didst bleed for us, I swear to hold the truth that now I learn, Leal to the loyal, to the traitor stern, And ever just and nobly mild to be, Meet scholar of that Prince of Chivalry; And here Thy shrine bear witness, Lord, for me."

The horse of Roland, hearing the boy tell His vow, looked round and spoke: "O King, 'tis well!" Then on the charger mounted the child-king, And rode into the town, while all the bells 'gan ring.

Dublin University Magazine



EVIRADNUS.

THE KNIGHT ERRANT.

("Qu'est-ce que Sigismond et Ladislas ont dit.")

[Bk. XV. iii. 1.]

I.

THE ADVENTURER SETS OUT.

What was it Sigismond and Ladislaeus said?

I know not if the rock, or tree o'erhead, Had heard their speech;—but when the two spoke low, Among the trees, a shudder seemed to go Through all their branches, just as if that way A beast had passed to trouble and dismay. More dark the shadow of the rock was seen, And then a morsel of the shade, between The sombre trees, took shape as it would seem Like spectre walking in the sunset's gleam.

It is not monster rising from its lair, Nor phantom of the foliage and the air, It is not morsel of the granite's shade That walks in deepest hollows of the glade. 'Tis not a vampire nor a spectre pale But living man in rugged coat of mail. It is Alsatia's noble Chevalier, Eviradnus the brave, that now is here.

The men who spoke he recognized the while He rested in the thicket; words of guile Most horrible were theirs as they passed on, And to the ears of Eviradnus one— One word had come which roused him. Well he knew The land which lately he had journeyed through.

He down the valley went into the inn Where he had left his horse and page, Gasclin. The horse had wanted drink, and lost a shoe; And now, "Be quick!" he said, "with what you do, For business calls me, I must not delay." He strides the saddle and he rides away.

II.

EVIRADNUS.

Eviradnus was growing old apace, The weight of years had left its hoary trace, But still of knights the most renowned was he, Model of bravery and purity. His blood he spared not; ready day or night To punish crime, his dauntless sword shone bright In his unblemished hand; holy and white And loyal all his noble life had been, A Christian Samson coming on the scene. With fist alone the gate he battered down Of Sickingen in flames, and saved the town. 'Twas he, indignant at the honor paid To crime, who with his heel an onslaught made Upon Duke Lupus' shameful monument, Tore down, the statue he to fragments rent; Then column of the Strasburg monster bore To bridge of Wasselonne, and threw it o'er Into the waters deep. The people round Blazon the noble deeds that so abound From Altorf unto Chaux-de-Fonds, and say, When he rests musing in a dreamy way, "Behold, 'tis Charlemagne!" Tawny to see And hairy, and seven feet high was he, Like John of Bourbon. Roaming hill or wood He looked a wolf was striving to do good. Bound up in duty, he of naught complained, The cry for help his aid at once obtained. Only he mourned the baseness of mankind, And—that the beds too short he still doth find. When people suffer under cruel kings, With pity moved, he to them succor brings. 'Twas he defended Alix from her foes As sword of Urraca—he ever shows His strength is for the feeble and oppressed; Father of orphans he, and all distressed! Kings of the Rhine in strongholds were by him Boldly attacked, and tyrant barons grim. He freed the towns—confronting in his lair Hugo the Eagle; boldly did he dare To break the collar of Saverne, the ring Of Colmar, and the iron torture thing Of Schlestadt, and the chain that Haguenau bore. Such Eviradnus was a wrong before, Good but most terrible. In the dread scale Which princes weighted with their horrid tale Of craft and violence, and blood and ill, And fire and shocking deeds, his sword was still God's counterpoise displayed. Ever alert More evil from the wretched to avert, Those hapless ones who 'neath Heaven's vault at night Raise suppliant hands. His lance loved not the plight Of mouldering in the rack, of no avail, His battle-axe slipped from supporting nail Quite easily; 'twas ill for action base To come so near that he the thing could trace. The steel-clad champion death drops all around As glaciers water. Hero ever found Eviradnus is kinsman of the race Of Amadys of Gaul, and knights of Thrace, He smiles at age. For he who never asked For quarter from mankind—shall he be tasked To beg of Time for mercy? Rather he Would girdle up his loins, like Baldwin be. Aged he is, but of a lineage rare; The least intrepid of the birds that dare Is not the eagle barbed. What matters age, The years but fire him with a holy rage. Though late from Palestine, he is not spent,— With age he wrestles, firm in his intent.

III.

IN THE FOREST.

If in the woodland traveller there had been That eve, who lost himself, strange sight he'd seen. Quite in the forest's heart a lighted space Arose to view; in that deserted place A lone, abandoned hall with light aglow The long neglect of centuries did show. The castle-towers of Corbus in decay Were girt by weeds and growths that had their way. Couch-grass and ivy, and wild eglantine In subtle scaling warfare all combine. Subject to such attacks three hundred years, The donjon yields, and ruin now appears, E'en as by leprosy the wild boars die, In moat the crumbled battlements now lie; Around the snake-like bramble twists its rings; Freebooter sparrows come on daring wings To perch upon the swivel-gun, nor heed Its murmuring growl when pecking in their greed The mulberries ripe. With insolence the thorn Thrives on the desolation so forlorn. But winter brings revenges; then the Keep Wakes all vindictive from its seeming sleep, Hurls down the heavy rain, night after night, Thanking the season's all-resistless might; And, when the gutters choke, its gargoyles four From granite mouths in anger spit and pour Upon the hated ivy hour by hour.

As to the sword rust is, so lichens are To towering citadel with which they war. Alas! for Corbus—dreary, desolate, And yet its woes the winters mitigate. It rears itself among convulsive throes That shake its ruins when the tempest blows. Winter, the savage warrior, pleases well, With its storm clouds, the mighty citadel,— Restoring it to life. The lightning flash Strikes like a thief and flies; the winds that crash Sound like a clarion, for the Tempest bluff Is Battle's sister. And when wild and rough, The north wind blows, the tower exultant cries "Behold me!" When hail-hurling gales arise Of blustering Equinox, to fan the strife, It stands erect, with martial ardor rife, A joyous soldier! When like yelping hound Pursued by wolves, November comes to bound In joy from rock to rock, like answering cheer To howling January now so near— "Come on!" the Donjon cries to blasts o'erhead— It has seen Attila, and knows not dread. Oh, dismal nights of contest in the rain And mist, that furious would the battle gain, 'The tower braves all, though angry skies pour fast The flowing torrents, river-like and vast. From their eight pinnacles the gorgons bay, And scattered monsters, in their stony way, Are growling heard; the rampart lions gnaw The misty air and slush with granite maw, The sleet upon the griffins spits, and all The Saurian monsters, answering to the squall, Flap wings; while through the broken ceiling fall Torrents of rain upon the forms beneath, Dragons and snak'd Medusas gnashing teeth In the dismantled rooms. Like armored knight The granite Castle fights with all its might, Resisting through the winter. All in vain, The heaven's bluster, January's rain, And those dread elemental powers we call The Infinite—the whirlwinds that appall— Thunder and waterspouts; and winds that shake As 'twere a tree its ripened fruit to take. The winds grow wearied, warring with the tower, The noisy North is out of breath, nor power Has any blast old Corbus to defeat, It still has strength their onslaughts worst to meet. Thus, spite of briers and thistles, the old tower Remains triumphant through the darkest hour; Superb as pontiff, in the forest shown, Its rows of battlements make triple crown; At eve, its silhouette is finely traced Immense and black—showing the Keep is placed On rocky throne, sublime and high; east, west, And north and south, at corners four, there rest Four mounts; Aptar, where flourishes the pine, And Toxis, where the elms grow green and fine; Crobius and Bleyda, giants in their might, Against the stormy winds to stand and fight, And these above its diadem uphold Night's living canopy of clouds unrolled.

The herdsman fears, and thinks its shadow creeps To follow him; and superstition keeps Such hold that Corbus as a terror reigns; Folks say the Fort a target still remains For the Black Archer—and that it contains The cave where the Great Sleeper still sleeps sound. The country people all the castle round Are frightened easily, for legends grow And mix with phantoms of the mind; we know The hearth is cradle of such fantasies, And in the smoke the cotter sees arise From low-thatched but he traces cause of dread. Thus rendering thanks that he is lowly bred, Because from such none look for valorous deeds. The peasant flies the Tower, although it leads A noble knight to seek adventure there, And, from his point of honor, dangers dare.

Thus very rarely passer-by is seen; But—it might be with twenty years between, Or haply less—at unfixed interval There would a semblance be of festival. A Seneschal and usher would appear, And troops of servants many baskets bear. Then were, in mystery, preparations made, And they departed—for till night none stayed. But 'twixt the branches gazers could descry The blackened hall lit up most brilliantly. None dared approach—and this the reason why.

IV.

THE CUSTOM OF LUSACE.

When died a noble Marquis of Lusace 'Twas custom for the heir who filled his place Before assuming princely pomp and power To sup one night in Corbus' olden tower. From this weird meal he passed to the degree Of Prince and Margrave; nor could ever he Be thought brave knight, or she—if woman claim The rank—be reckoned of unblemished fame Till they had breathed the air of ages gone, The funeral odors, in the nest alone Of its dead masters. Ancient was the race; To trace the upward stem of proud Lusace Gives one a vertigo; descended they From ancestor of Attila, men say; Their race to him—through Pagans—they hark back; Becoming Christians, race they thought to track Through Lechus, Plato, Otho to combine With Ursus, Stephen, in a lordly line. Of all those masters of the country round That were on Northern Europe's boundary found— At first were waves and then the dykes were reared— Corbus in double majesty appeared, Castle on hill and town upon the plain; And one who mounted on the tower could gain A view beyond the pines and rocks, of spires That pierce the shade the distant scene acquires; A walled town is it, but 'tis not ally Of the old citadel's proud majesty; Unto itself belonging this remained. Often a castle was thus self-sustained And equalled towns; witness in Lombardy Crama, and Plato too in Tuscany, And in Apulia Barletta;—each one Was powerful as a town, and dreaded none. Corbus ranked thus; its precincts seemed to hold The reflex of its mighty kings of old; Their great events had witness in these walls, Their marriages were here and funerals, And mostly here it was that they were born; And here crowned Barons ruled with pride and scorn; Cradle of Scythian majesty this place. Now each new master of this ancient race A duty owed to ancestors which he Was bound to carry on. The law's decree It was that he should pass alone the night Which made him king, as in their solemn sight. Just at the forest's edge a clerk was met With wine in sacred cup and purpose set, A wine mysterious, which the heir must drink To cause deep slumber till next day's soft brink. Then to the castle tower he wends his way, And finds a supper laid with rich display. He sups and sleeps: then to his slumbering eyes The shades of kings from Bela all arise. None dare the tower to enter on this night, But when the morning dawns, crowds are in sight The dreamer to deliver,—whom half dazed, And with the visions of the night amazed, They to the old church take, where rests the dust Of Borivorus; then the bishop must, With fervent blessings on his eyes and mouth, Put in his hands the stony hatchets both, With which—even like death impartially— Struck Attila, with one arm dexterously The south, and with the other arm the north.

This day the town the threatening flag set forth Of Marquis Swantibore, the monster he Who in the wood tied up his wife, to be Devoured by wolves, together with the bull Of which with jealousy his heart was full.

Even when woman took the place of heir The tower of Corbus claimed the supper there; 'Twas law—the woman trembled, but must dare.

V.

THE MARCHIONESS MAHAUD.

Niece of the Marquis—John the Striker named— Mahaud to-day the marquisate has claimed. A noble dame—the crown is hers by right: As woman she has graces that delight. A queen devoid of beauty is not queen, She needs the royalty of beauty's mien; God in His harmony has equal ends For cedar that resists, and reed that bends, And good it is a woman sometimes rules, Holds in her hand the power, and manners schools, And laws and mind;—succeeding master proud, With gentle voice and smile she leads the crowd, The sombre human troop. But sweet Mahaud On evil days had fallen; gentle, good, Alas! she held the sceptre like a flower; Timid yet gay, imprudent for the hour, And careless too. With Europe all in throes, Though twenty years she now already knows, She has refused to marry, although oft Entreated. It is time an arm less soft Than hers—a manly arm—supported her; Like to the rainbow she, one might aver, Shining on high between the cloud and rain, Or like the ewe that gambols on the plain Between the bear and tiger; innocent, She has two neighbors of most foul intent: For foes the Beauty has, in life's pure spring, The German Emp'ror and the Polish King.

VI.

THE TWO NEIGHBORS.

The difference this betwixt the evil pair, Faithless to God—for laws without a care— One was the claw, the other one the will Controlling. Yet to mass they both went still, And on the rosary told their beads each day. But none the less the world believed that they Unto the powers of hell their souls had sold. Even in whispers men each other told The details of the pact which they had signed With that dark power, the foe of human kind; In whispers, for the crowd had mortal dread Of them so high, and woes that they had spread. One might be vengeance and the other hate, Yet lived they side by side, in powerful state And close alliance. All the people near From red horizon dwelt in abject fear, Mastered by them; their figures darkly grand Had ruddy reflex from the wasted land, And fires, and towns they sacked. Besides the one, Like David, poet was, the other shone As fine musician—rumor spread their fame, Declaring them divine, until each name In Italy's fine sonnets met with praise. The ancient hierarch in those old days Had custom strange, a now forgotten thing, It was a European plan that King Of France was marquis, and th' imperial head Of Germany was duke; there was no need To class the other kings, but barons they, Obedient vassals unto Rome, their stay. The King of Poland was but simple knight, Yet now, for once, had strange unwonted right, And, as exception to the common state, This one Sarmatian King was held as great As German Emperor; and each knew how His evil part to play, nor mercy show. The German had one aim, it was to take All land he could, and it his own to make. The Pole already having Baltic shore, Seized Celtic ports, still needing more and more. On all the Northern Sea his crafts roused fear: Iceland beheld his demon navy near. Antwerp the German burnt; and Prussias twain Bowed to the yoke. The Polish King was fain To help the Russian Spotocus—his aid Was like the help that in their common trade A sturdy butcher gives a weaker one. The King it is who seizes, and this done, The Emp'ror pillages, usurping right In war Teutonic, settled but by might. The King in Jutland cynic footing gains, The weak coerced, the while with cunning pains The strong are duped. But 'tis a law they make That their accord themselves should never break. From Arctic seas to cities Transalpine, Their hideous talons, curved for sure rapine, Scrape o'er and o'er the mournful continent, Their plans succeed, and each is well content. Thus under Satan's all paternal care They brothers are, this royal bandit pair. Oh, noxious conquerors! with transient rule Chimera heads—ambition can but fool. Their misty minds but harbor rottenness Loathsome and fetid, and all barrenness— Their deeds to ashes turn, and, hydra-bred, The mystic skeleton is theirs to dread. The daring German and the cunning Pole Noted to-day a woman had control Of lands, and watched Mahaud like evil spies; And from the Emp'ror's cruel mouth—with dyes Of wrath empurpled—came these words of late: "The empire wearies of the wallet weight Hung at its back—this High and Low Lusace, Whose hateful load grows heavier apace, That now a woman holds its ruler's place." Threatening, and blood suggesting, every word; The watchful Pole was silent—but he heard.

Two monstrous dangers; but the heedless one Babbles and smiles, and bids all care begone— Likes lively speech—while all the poor she makes To love her, and the taxes off she takes. A life of dance and pleasure she has known— A woman always; in her jewelled crown It is the pearl she loves—not cutting gems, For these can wound, and mark men's diadems. She pays the hire of Homer's copyists, And in the Courts of Love presiding, lists.

Quite recently unto her Court have come Two men—unknown their names or native home, Their rank or race; but one plays well the lute, The other is a troubadour; both suit The taste of Mahaud, when on summer eve, 'Neath opened windows, they obtain her leave To sing upon the terrace, and relate The charming tales that do with music mate. In August the Moravians have their fete, But it is radiant June in which Lusace Must consecrate her noble Margrave race. Thus in the weird and old ancestral tower For Mahaud now has come the fateful hour, The lonely supper which her state decrees. What matters this to flowers, and birds, and trees, And clouds and fountains? That the people may Still bear their yoke—have kings to rule alway? The water flows, the wind in passing by In murmuring tones takes up the questioning cry.

VII.

THE BANQUET HALL.

The old stupendous hall has but one door, And in the dusk it seems that more and more The walls recede in space unlimited. At the far end there is a table spread That in the dreary void with splendor shines; For ceiling we behold but rafter lines. The table is arranged for one sole guest, A solitary chair doth near it rest, Throne-like, 'neath canopy that droopeth down From the black beams; upon the walls are shown The painted histories of the olden might, The King of the Wends Thassilo's stern fight On land with Nimrod, and on ocean wide With Neptune. Rivers too personified Appear—the Rhine as by the Meuse betrayed, And fading groups of Odin in the shade, And the wolf Fenrir and the Asgard snake. One might the place for dragons' stable take. The only lights that in the shed appear Spring from the table's giant chandelier With seven iron branches—brought from hell By Attila Archangel, people tell, When he had conquered Mammon—and they say That seven souls were the first flames that day. This banquet hall looks an abyss outlined With shadowy vagueness, though indeed we find In the far depth upon the table spread A sudden, strong, and glaring light is shed, Striking upon the goldsmith's burnished works, And on the pheasants killed by traitor hawks. Loaded the table is with viands cold, Ewers and flagons, all enough of old To make a love feast. All the napery Was Friesland's famous make; and fair to see The dishes, silver-gilt and bordered round With flowers; for fruit, here strawberries were found And citrons, apples too, and nectarines. The wooden bowls were carved in cunning lines By peasants of the Murg, whose skilful hands With patient toil reclaim the barren lands And make their gardens flourish on a rock, Or mountain where we see the hunters flock. Gold fountain-cup, with handles Florentine, Shows Acteons horned, though armed and booted fine, Who fight with sword in hand against the hounds. Roses and gladioles make up bright mounds Of flowers, with juniper and aniseed; While sage, all newly cut for this great need, Covers the Persian carpet that is spread Beneath the table, and so helps to shed Around a perfume of the balmy spring. Beyond is desolation withering. One hears within the hollow dreary space Across the grove, made fresh by summer's grace, The wind that ever is with mystic might A spirit ripple of the Infinite. The glass restored to frames to creak is made By blustering wind that comes from neighboring glade. Strange in this dream-like place, so drear and lone, The guest expected should be living one! The seven lights from seven arms make glow Almost with life the staring eyes that show On the dim frescoes—and along the walls Is here and there a stool, or the light falls O'er some long chest, with likeness to a tomb. Yet was displayed amid the mournful gloom Some copper vessels, and some crockery ware. The door—as if it must, yet scarcely dare— Had opened widely to the night's fresh air.

No voice is heard, for man has fled the place; But Terror crouches in the corners' space, And waits the coming guest. This banquet hall Of Titans is so high, that he who shall With wandering eye look up from beam to beam Of the confused wild roof will haply seem To wonder that the stars he sees not there. Giants the spiders are, that weave with care Their hideous webs, which float the joists amid, Joists whose dark ends in griffins' jaws are hid. The light is lurid, and the air like death, And dark and foul. Even Night holds its breath Awhile. One might suppose the door had fear To move its double leaves—their noise to hear.

VIII.

WHAT MORE WAS TO BE SEEN.

But the great hall of generations dead Has something more sepulchral and more dread Than lurid glare from seven-branched chandelier Or table lone with stately dais near— Two rows of arches o'er a colonnade With knights on horseback all in mail arrayed, Each one disposed with pillar at his back And to another vis-a-vis. Nor lack The fittings all complete; in each right hand A lance is seen; the armored horses stand With chamfrons laced, and harness buckled sure; The cuissarts' studs are by their clamps secure; The dirks stand out upon the saddle-bow; Even unto the horses' feet do flow Caparisons,—the leather all well clasped, The gorget and the spurs with bronze tongues hasped, The shining long sword from the saddle hung, The battle-axe across the back was flung. Under the arm a trusty dagger rests, Each spiked knee-piece its murderous power attests. Feet press the stirrups—hands on bridle shown Proclaim all ready, with the visors down, And yet they stir not, nor is audible A sound to make the sight less terrible.

Each monstrous horse a frontal horn doth bear, If e'er the Prince of Darkness herdsman were, These cattle black were his by surest right, Like things but seen in horrid dreams of night. The steeds are swathed in trappings manifold, The armed knights are grave, and stern, and cold, Terrific too; the clench'd fists seem to hold Some frightful missive, which the phantom hands Would show, if opened out at hell's commands. The dusk exaggerates their giant size, The shade is awed—the pillars coldly rise. Oh, Night! why are these awful warriors here?

Horses and horsemen that make gazers fear Are only empty armor. But erect And haughty mien they all affect And threatening air—though shades of iron still. Are they strange larvae—these their statues ill? No. They are dreams of horror clothed in brass, Which from profoundest depths of evil pass With futile aim to dare the Infinite! Souls tremble at the silent spectre sight, As if in this mysterious cavalcade They saw the weird and mystic halt was made Of them who at the coming dawn of day Would fade, and from their vision pass away. A stranger looking in, these masks to see, Might deem from Death some mandate there might be At times to burst the tombs—the dead to wear A human shape, and mustering ranks appear Of phantoms, each confronting other shade.

Grave-clothes are not more grim and sombre made Than are these helms; the deaf and sealed-up graves Are not more icy than these arms; the staves Of hideous biers have not their joints more strong Than are the joinings of these legs; the long Scaled gauntlet fingers look like worms that shine, And battle robes to shroud-like folds incline. The heads are skull-like, and the stony feet Seem for the charnel house but only meet. The pikes have death's-heads carved, and seem to be Too heavy; but the shapes defiantly Sit proudly in the saddle—and perforce The rider looks united to the horse! The network of their mail doth clearly cross. The Marquis' mortar beams near Ducal wreath, And on the helm and gleaming shield beneath Alternate triple pearls with leaves displayed Of parsley, and the royal robes are made So large that with the knightly harness they Seem to o'ermaster palfreys every way. To Rome the oldest armor might be traced, And men and horses' armor interlaced Blent horribly; the man and steed we feel Made but one hydra with its scales of steel. Yet is there history here. Each coat of mail Is representant of some stirring tale. Each delta-shaped escutcheon shines to show A vision of the chief by it we know. Here are the blood-stained Dukes' and Marquis' line, Barbaric lords, who amid war's rapine Bore gilded saints upon their banners still Painted on fishes' skin with cunning skill. Here Geth, who to the Slaves cried "Onward go," And Mundiaque and Ottocar—Plato And Ladislaeus Kunne; and Welf who bore These words upon his shield his foes before; "Nothing there is I fear." Otho blear-eyed, Zultan and Nazamustus, and beside The later Spignus, e'en to Spartibor Of triple vision, and yet more and more As if a pause at every age were made, And Antaeus' fearful dynasty portrayed.

What do they here so rigid and erect? What wait they for—and what do they expect? Blindness fills up the helm 'neath iron brows; Like sapless tree no soul the hero knows. Darkness is now where eyes with flame were fraught, And thrice-bored visor serves for mask of naught. Of empty void is spectral giant made, And each of these all-powerful knights displayed Is only rind of pride and murderous sin; Themselves are held the icy grave within. Rust eats the casques enamoured once so much Of death and daring—which knew kiss-like touch Of banner—mistress so august and dear— But not an arm can stir its hinges here; Behold how mute are they whose threats were heard Like savage roar—whose gnashing teeth and word Deadened the clarion's tones; the helmets dread Have not a sound, and all the armor spread, The hauberks, that strong breathing seemed to sway, Are stranded now in helplessness alway To see the shadows, still prolonged, that seem To take at night the image of a dream.

These two great files reach from the door afar To where the table and the dais are, Leaving between their fronts a narrow lane. On the left side the Marquises maintain Their place, but the right side the Dukes retain, And till the roof, embattled by Spignus, But worn by time that even that subdues, Shall fall upon their heads, these forms will stand The grades confronting—one on either hand. While in advance beyond, with haughty head— As if commander of this squadron dread— All waiting signal of the Judgment Day, In stone was seen in olden sculptors' way Charlemagne the King, who on the earth had found Only twelve knights to grace his Table Round.

The crests were an assembly of strange things, Of horrors such as nightmare only brings. Asps, and spread eagles without beak or feet, Sirens and mermaids here and dragons meet, And antlered stags and fabled unicorn, And fearful things of monstrous fancy born. Upon the rigid form of morion's sheen Winged lions and the Cerberus are seen, And serpents winged and finned; things made to fright The timid foe, alone by sense of sight. Some leaning forward and the others back, They looked a growing forest that did lack No form of terror; but these things of dread That once on barons' helms the battle led Beneath the giant banners, now are still,

As if they gaped and found the time but ill, Wearied the ages passed so slowly by, And that the gory dead no more did lie Beneath their feet—pined for the battle-cry, The trumpet's clash, the carnage and the strife, Yawning to taste again their dreadful life. Like tears upon the palfreys' muzzles were The hard reflections of the metal there; From out these spectres, ages past exhumed, And as their shadows on the roof-beams loomed, Cast by the trembling light, each figure wan Seemed growing, and a monstrous shape to don, So that the double range of horrors made The darkened zenith clouds of blackest shade, That shaped themselves to profiles terrible.

All motionless the coursers horrible, That formed a legion lured by Death to war, These men and horses masked, how dread they are! Absorbed in shadows of the eternal shore, Among the living all their tasks are o'er. Silent, they seem all mystery to brave, These sphinxes whom no beacon light can save Upon the threshold of the gulf so near, As if they faced the great enigma here; Ready with hoofs, between the pillars blue To strike out sparks, and combats to renew, Choosing for battle-field the shades below, Which they provoked by deeds we cannot know, In that dark realm thought dares not to expound False masks from heaven lowered to depths profound.

IX.

A NOISE ON THE FLOOR.

This is the scene on which now enters in Eviradnus; and follows page Gasclin.

The outer walls were almost all decayed, The door, for ancient Marquises once made— Raised many steps above the courtyard near— Commanded view of the horizon clear. The forest looked a great gulf all around, And on the rock of Corbus there were found Secret and blood-stained precipices tall. Duke Plato built the tower and banquet hall Over great pits,—so was it Rumor said. The flooring sounds 'neath Eviradnus' tread Above abysses many. "Page," said he, "Come here, your eyes than mine can better see, For sight is woman-like and shuns the old; Ah! he can see enough, when years are told, Who backwards looks. But, boy, turn towards the glade And tell me what you see." The boy obeyed, And leaned across the threshold, while the bright, Full moon shed o'er the glade its white, pure light.