*****



THE DELIVERANCE OF VIENNA.

TRANSLATED FROM VINCENZIO DA FILICAIA.

(Published in the "Winter's Wreath," Liverpool, 1828.)

"Le corde d'oro elette," etc.

The chords, the sacred chords of gold, Strike, O Muse, in measure bold; And frame a sparkling wreath of joyous songs For that great God to whom revenge belongs. Who shall resist his might, Who marshals for the fight Earthquake and thunder, hurricane and flame? He smote the haughty race Of unbelieving Thrace, And turned their rage to fear, their pride to shame. He looked in wrath from high, Upon their vast array; And, in the twinkling of an eye, Tambour, and trump, and battle-cry, And steeds, and turbaned infantry, Passed like a dream away. Such power defends the mansions of the just: But, like a city without walls, The grandeur of the mortal falls Who glories in his strength, and makes not God his trust. The proud blasphemers thought all earth their own; They deemed that soon the whirlwind of their ire Would sweep down tower and palace, dome and spire, The Christian altars and the Augustan throne. And soon, they cried, shall Austria bow To the dust her lofty brow. The princedoms of Almayne Shall wear the Phrygian chain; In humbler waves shall vassal Tiber roll; And Rome a slave forlorn, Her laurelled tresses shorn, Shall feel our iron in her inmost soul. Who shall bid the torrent stay? Who shall bar the lightning's way? Who arrest the advancing van Of the fiery Ottoman?

As the curling smoke-wreaths fly When fresh breezes clear the sky, Passed away each swelling boast Of the misbelieving host. From the Hebrus rolling far Came the murky cloud of war, And in shower and tempest dread Burst on Austria's fenceless head. But not for vaunt or threat Didst Thou, O Lord, forget The flock so dearly bought, and loved so well.

Even in the very hour Of guilty pride and power Full on the circumcised Thy vengeance fell. Then the fields were heaped with dead, Then the streams with gore were red, And every bird of prey, and every beast, From wood and cavern thronged to Thy great feast.

What terror seized the fiends obscene of Nile! How wildly, in his place of doom beneath, Arabia's lying prophet gnashed his teeth, And cursed his blighted hopes and wasted guile! When, at the bidding of Thy sovereign might, Flew on their destined path Thy messages of wrath, Riding on storms and wrapped in deepest night. The Phthian mountains saw, And quaked with mystic awe: The proud Sultana of the Straits bowed down Her jewelled neck and her embattled crown. The miscreants, as they raised their eyes Glaring defiance on Thy skies, Saw adverse winds and clouds display The terrors of their black array;— Saw each portentous star Whose fiery aspect turned of yore to flight The iron chariots of the Canaanite Gird its bright harness for a deadlier war.

Beneath Thy withering look Their limbs with palsy shook; Scattered on earth the crescent banners lay; Trembled with panic fear Sabre and targe and spear, Through the proud armies of the rising day. Faint was each heart, unnerved each hand; And, if they strove to charge or stand Their efforts were as vain As his who, scared in feverish sleep By evil dreams, essays to leap, Then backward falls again. With a crash of wild dismay, Their ten thousand ranks gave way; Fast they broke, and fast they fled; Trampled, mangled, dying, dead, Horse and horsemen mingled lay; Till the mountains of the slain Raised the valleys to the plain. Be all the glory to Thy name divine! The swords were our's; the arm, O Lord, was Thine. Therefore to Thee, beneath whose footstool wait The powers which erring man calls Chance and Fate, To Thee who hast laid low The pride of Europe's foe, And taught Byzantium's sullen lords to fear, I pour my spirit out In a triumphant shout, And call all ages and all lands to hear. Thou who evermore endurest, Loftiest, mightiest, wisest, purest, Thou whose will destroys or saves, Dread of tyrants, hope of slaves, The wreath of glory is from Thee, And the red sword of victory.

There where exulting Danube's flood Runs stained with Islam's noblest blood From that tremendous field, There where in mosque the tyrants met, And from the crier's minaret Unholy summons pealed, Pure shrines and temples now shall be Decked for a worship worthy Thee. To Thee thy whole creation pays With mystic sympathy its praise, The air, the earth, the seas: The day shines forth with livelier beam; There is a smile upon the stream, An anthem on the breeze. Glory, they cry, to Him whose might Hath turned the barbarous foe to flight, Whose arm protects with power divine The city of his favoured line. The caves, the woods, the rocks, repeat the sound; The everlasting hills roll the long echoes round.

But, if Thy rescued church may dare Still to besiege Thy throne with prayer, Sheathe not, we implore Thee, Lord, Sheathe not Thy victorious sword. Still Panonia pines away, Vassal of a double sway: Still Thy servants groan in chains, Still the race which hates Thee reigns: Part the living from the dead: Join the members to the head: Snatch Thine own sheep from yon fell monster's hold; Let one kind shepherd rule one undivided fold.

He is the victor, only he Who reaps the fruits of victory. We conquered once in vain, When foamed the Ionian waves with gore, And heaped Lepanto's stormy shore With wrecks and Moslem slain. Yet wretched Cyprus never broke The Syrian tyrant's iron yoke. Shall the twice vanquished foe Again repeat his blow? Shall Europe's sword be hung to rust in peace? No—let the red-cross ranks Of the triumphant Franks Bear swift deliverance to the shrines of Greece And in her inmost heart let Asia feel The avenging plagues of Western fire and steel.

Oh God! for one short moment raise The veil which hides those glorious days. The flying foes I see Thee urge Even to the river's headlong verge.

Close on their rear the loud uproar Of fierce pursuit from Ister's shore Comes pealing on the wind; The Rab's wild waters are before, The Christian sword behind. Sons of perdition, speed your flight, No earthly spear is in the rest; No earthly champion leads to fight The warriors of the West. The Lord of Host asserts His old renown, Scatters, and smites, and slays, and tramples down. Fast, fast beyond what mortal tongue can say, Or mortal fancy dream, He rushes on his prey: Till, with the terrors of the wondrous theme Bewildered, and appalled, I cease to sing, And close my dazzled eye, and rest my wearied wing.

*****



THE LAST BUCCANEER. (1839.)

The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, The sky was black and drear, When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name Alongside the last Buccaneer.

"Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, When all others drive bare on the seas? Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador, Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?"

"From a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no line can sound, Without rudder or needle we steer; Above, below, our bark, dies the sea-fowl and the shark, As we fly by the last Buccaneer.

"To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde, A loud crash, and a louder roar; And to-morrow shall the deep, with a heavy moaning, sweep The corpses and wreck to the shore."

The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride, In the breath of the citron shades; And Severn's towering mast securely now flies fast, Through the sea of the balmy Trades.

From St Jago's wealthy port, from Havannah's royal fort, The seaman goes forth without fear; For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight Of the flag of the last Buccaneer.

*****



EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE. (1845.)

To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away. And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting place I asked, an early grave. Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I spake like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

*****



LINES WRITTEN IN AUGUST. (1847.)

The day of tumult, strife, defeat, was o'er; Worn out with toil, and noise, and scorn, and spleen, I slumbered, and in slumber saw once more A room in an old mansion, long unseen.

That room, methought, was curtained from the light; Yet through the curtains shone the moon's cold ray Full on a cradle, where, in linen white, Sleeping life's first soft sleep, an infant lay.

Pale flickered on the hearth the dying flame, And all was silent in that ancient hall, Save when by fits on the low night-wind came The murmur of the distant waterfall.

And lo! the fairy queens who rule our birth Drew nigh to speak the new-born baby's doom: With noiseless step, which left no trace on earth, From gloom they came, and vanished into gloom.

Not deigning on the boy a glance to cast Swept careless by the gorgeous Queen of Gain; More scornful still, the Queen of Fashion passed, With mincing gait and sneer of cold disdain.

The Queen of Power tossed high her jewelled head, And o'er her shoulder threw a wrathful frown; The Queen of Pleasure on the pillow shed Scarce one stray rose-leaf from her fragrant crown.

Still Fay in long procession followed Fay; And still the little couch remained unblest: But, when those wayward sprites had passed away, Came One, the last, the mightiest, and the best.

Oh glorious lady, with the eyes of light And laurels clustering round thy lofty brow, Who by the cradle's side didst watch that night, Warbling a sweet, strange music, who wast thou?

"Yes, darling; let them go;" so ran the strain: "Yes; let them go, gain, fashion, pleasure, power, And all the busy elves to whose domain Belongs the nether sphere, the fleeting hour.

"Without one envious sigh, one anxious scheme, The nether sphere, the fleeting hour resign. Mine is the world of thought, the world of dream, Mine all the past, and all the future mine.

"Fortune, that lays in sport the mighty low, Age, that to penance turns the joys of youth, Shall leave untouched the gifts which I bestow, The sense of beauty and the thirst of truth.

"Of the fair brotherhood who share my grace, I, from thy natal day, pronounce thee free; And, if for some I keep a nobler place, I keep for none a happier than for thee.

"There are who, while to vulgar eyes they seem Of all my bounties largely to partake, Of me as of some rival's handmaid deem And court me but for gain's, power's, fashion's sake.

"To such, though deep their lore, though wide their fame, Shall my great mysteries be all unknown: But thou, through good and evil, praise and blame, Wilt not thou love me for myself alone?

"Yes; thou wilt love me with exceeding love; And I will tenfold all that love repay, Still smiling, though the tender may reprove, Still faithful, though the trusted may betray.

"For aye mine emblem was, and aye shall be, The ever-during plant whose bough I wear, Brightest and greenest then, when every tree That blossoms in the light of Time is bare.

"In the dark hour of shame, I deigned to stand Before the frowning peers at Bacon's side: On a far shore I smoothed with tender hand, Through months of pain, the sleepless bed of Hyde:

"I brought the wise and brave of ancient days To cheer the cell where Raleigh pined alone: I lighted Milton's darkness with the blaze Of the bright ranks that guard the eternal throne.

"And even so, my child, it is my pleasure That thou not then alone shouldst feel me nigh, When in domestic bliss and studious leisure, Thy weeks uncounted come, uncounted fly;

"Not then alone, when myriads, closely pressed Around thy car, the shout of triumph raise; Nor when, in gilded drawing rooms, thy breast Swells at the sweeter sound of woman's praise.

"No: when on restless night dawns cheerless morrow, When weary soul and wasting body pine, Thine am I still, in danger, sickness, sorrow, In conflict, obloquy, want, exile, thine;

"Thine, where on mountain waves the snowbirds scream, Where more than Thule's winter barbs the breeze, Where scarce, through lowering clouds, one sickly gleam Lights the drear May-day of Antarctic seas;

"Thine, when around thy litter's track all day White sandhills shall reflect the blinding glare; Thine, when, through forests breathing death, thy way All night shall wind by many a tiger's lair;

"Thine most, when friends turn pale, when traitors fly, When, hard beset, thy spirit, justly proud, For truth, peace, freedom, mercy, dares defy A sullen priesthood and a raving crowd.

"Amidst the din of all things fell and vile, Hate's yell, and envy's hiss, and folly's bray, Remember me; and with an unforced smile See riches, baubles, flatterers, pass away.

"Yes: they will pass away; nor deem it strange: They come and go, as comes and goes the sea: And let them come and go: thou, through all change, Fix thy firm gaze on virtue and on me."

*****



TRANSLATION FROM PLAUTUS. (1850.)

[The author passed a part of the summer and autumn of 1850 at Ventnor, in the Isle of Wight. He usually, when walking alone, had with him a book. On one occasion, as he was loitering in the landslip near Bonchurch, reading the Rudens of Plautus, it struck him that it might be an interesting experiment to attempt to produce something which might be supposed to resemble passages in the lost Greek drama of Diphilus, from which the Rudens appears to have been taken. He selected one passage in the Rudens, of which he then made the following version, which he afterwards copied out at the request of a friend to whom he had repeated it.]

Act IV. Sc. vii.

DAEMONES: O Gripe, Gripe, in aetate hominum plurimae Fiunt transennae, ubi decipiuntur dolis; Atque edepol in eas plerumque esca imponitur. Quam si quis avidus pascit escam avariter, Decipitur in transenna avaritia sua. Ille, qui consulte, docte, atque astute cavet, Diutine uti bene licet partum bene. Mi istaec videtur praeda praedatum irier: Ut cum majore dote abeat, quam advenerit. Egone ut, quod ad me adlatum esse alienum sciam, Celem? Minime istuc faciet noster Daemones. Semper cavere hoc sapientes aequissimum est, Ne conscii sint ipsi maleficiis suis. Ego, mihi quum lusi, nil moror ullum lucrum.

GRIPUS: Spectavi ego pridem Comicos ad istum modum Sapienter dicta dicere, atque iis plaudier, Quum illos sapientis mores monstrabant poplo; Sed quum inde suam quisque ibant diversi domum, Nullus erat illo pacto, ut illi jusserant.

DAIM: O Gripe, Gripe, pleista pagidon schemata idoi tis an pepegmen en thneton bio, kai pleist ep autois deleath, on epithumia oregomenos tis en kakois alisketai ostis d apistei kai sophos phulattetai kalos apolauei ton kalos peporismenon. arpagma d ouch arpagm o larvax outosi, all autos, oimai, mallon arpaxei tina. tond andra kleptein tallotri—euphemei, talan tauten ye me mainoito manian Daimones. tode gar aei sophoisin eulabeteon, me ti poth eauto tis adikema sunnoe kerde d emoige panth osois euphrainomai, kerdos d akerdes o toumon algunei kear.

GRIP: kago men ede komikon akekoa semnos legonton toiade, tous de theomenous krotein, mataiois edomenous sophismasin eith, os apelth ekastos oikad, oudeni ouden paremeine ton kalos eiremenon.

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PARAPHRASE OF A PASSAGE IN THE CHRONICLE OF THE MONK OF ST GALL.

[In the summer of 1856, the author travelled with a friend through Lombardy. As they were on the road between Novara and Milan, they were conversing on the subject of the legends relating to that country. The author remarked to his companion that Mr Panizzi, in the Essay on the Romantic Narrative Poetry of the Italians, prefixed to his edition of Bojardo, had pointed out an instance of the conversion of ballad poetry into prose narrative which strongly confirmed the theory of Perizonius and Niebuhr, upon which "The Lays of Ancient Rome" are founded; and, after repeating an extract which Mr Panizzi has given from the chronicle of "The Monk of St Gall," he proceeded to frame a metrical paraphrase. The note in Mr Panizzi's work (volume i. page 123, note b) is here copied verbatim.]

"The monk says that Oger was with Desiderius, King of Lombardy, watching the advance of Charlemagne's army. The king often asked Oger where was Charlemagne. Quando videris, inquit, segetem campis inhorrescere, ferreum Padum et Ticinum marinis fluctibus ferro nigrantibus muros civitatis inundantes, tunc est spes Caroli venientis. His nedum expletis primum ad occasum Circino vel Borea coepit apparere, quasi nubes tenebrosa, quae diem clarissimam horrentes convertit in umbras. Sed propiante Imperatore, ex armorum splendore, dies omni nocte tenebrosior oborta est inclusis. Tunc visus est ipse ferreus Carolus ferrea galea cristatus, ferreis manicis armillatus, etc., etc. His igitur, quae ego balbus et edentulus, non ut debui circuitu tardiore diutius explicare tentavi, veridicus speculator Oggerus celerrimo visu contuitus dixit ad Desiderium: Ecce, habes quem tantopere perquisisti. Et haec dicens, pene exanimis cecidit.—"Monach. Sangal." de Reb. Bel. Caroli Magni. lib. ii. para xxvi. Is this not evidently taken from poetical effusions?"

PARAPHRASE.

To Oggier spake King Didier: "When cometh Charlemagne? We looked for him in harvest: We looked for him in rain. Crops are reaped; and floods are past; And still he is not here. Some token show, that we may know That Charlemagne is near."

Then to the King made answer Oggier, the christened Dane: "When stands the iron harvest, Ripe on the Lombard plain, That stiff harvest which is reaped With sword of knight and peer, Then by that sign ye may divine That Charlemagne is near.

"When round the Lombard cities The iron flood shall flow, A swifter flood than Ticin, A broader flood than Po, Frothing white with many a plume, Dark blue with many a spear, Then by that sign ye may divine That Charlemagne is near."

*****



INSCRIPTION ON THE STATUE OF LORD WM. BENTINCK. AT CALCUTTA. (1835.)

To WILLIAM CAVENDISH BENTINCK, Who, during seven years, ruled India with eminent Prudence, Integrity, and Benevolence: Who, placed at the head of a great Empire, never laid aside The simplicity and moderation of a private citizen: Who infused into Oriental despotism the spirit of British Freedom: Who never forgot that the end of Government is The happiness of the Governed: Who abolished cruel rites: Who effaced humiliating distinctions: Who gave liberty to the expression of public opinion: Whose constant study it was, to elevate the intellectual And moral character of The Nations committed to his charge: This Monument Was erected by men, Who, differing in Race, in Manners, in Language, and in Religion, Cherish, with equal veneration and gratitude, The memory of his wise, upright, and Paternal Administration.

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EPITAPH ON SIR BENJAMIN HEATH MALKIN. AT CALCUTTA. (1837.)

This monument Is sacred to the memory of SIR BENJAMIN HEATH MALKIN, Knight, One of the Judges of The Supreme Court of Judicature: A man eminently distinguished By his literary and scientific attainments, By his professional learning and ability, By the clearness and accuracy of his intellect, By diligence, by patience, by firmness, by love of truth, By public spirit, ardent and disinterested, Yet always under the guidance of discretion, By rigid uprightness, by unostentatious piety, By the serenity of his temper, And by the benevolence of his heart.

He was born on the 29th September 1797. He died on the 21st October 1837.

*****



EPITAPH ON LORD METCALFE. (1847.)

Near this stone is laid CHARLES, LORD METCALFE, A Statesman tried in many high offices, And difficult conjunctures, And found equal to all. The three greatest Dependencies of the British Crown Were successively entrusted to his care. In India, his fortitude, his wisdom, His probity, and his moderation, Are held in honourable remembrance By men of many races, languages, and religions. In Jamaica, still convulsed by a social revolution, His prudence calmed the evil passions Which long suffering had engendered in one class And long domination in another. In Canada, not yet recovered from the calamities of civil war, He reconciled contending factions to each other, And to the Mother Country. Costly monuments in Asiatic and American cities Attest the gratitude of the nations which he ruled. This tablet records the sorrow and the pride With which his memory is cherished by his family.

THE END