Poems

ODES. – 1818-28.
KING LOUIS XVII

("En ce temps-là du ciel les portes.")

{Bk. I. v., December, 1822.}

 
     The golden gates were opened wide that day,
     All through the unveiled heaven there seemed to play
       Out of the Holiest of Holy, light;
     And the elect beheld, crowd immortal,
       A young soul, led up by young angels bright,
     Stand in the starry portal.
 
 
     A fair child fleeing from the world's fierce hate,
     In his blue eye the shade of sorrow sate,
       His golden hair hung all dishevelled down,
     On wasted cheeks that told a mournful story,
       And angels twined him with the innocent's crown,
     The martyr's palm of glory.
 
 
     The virgin souls that to the Lamb are near,
     Called through the clouds with voices heavenly clear,
       God hath prepared a glory for thy brow,
     Rest in his arms, and all ye hosts that sing
     His praises ever on untired string,
       Chant, for a mortal comes among ye now;
     Do homage – "'Tis a king."
 
 
     And the pale shadow saith to God in heaven:
       "I am an orphan and no king at all;
     I was a weary prisoner yestereven,
       My father's murderers fed my soul with gall.
     Not me, O Lord, the regal name beseems.
       Last night I fell asleep in dungeon drear,
     But then I saw my mother in my dreams,
       Say, shall I find her here?"
 
 
     The angels said: "Thy Saviour bids thee come,
     Out of an impure world He calls thee home,
       From the mad earth, where horrid murder waves
         Over the broken cross her impure wings,
       And regicides go down among the graves,
         Scenting the blood of kings."
 
 
     He cries: "Then have I finished my long life?
     Are all its evils over, all its strife,
     And will no cruel jailer evermore
     Wake me to pain, this blissful vision o'er?
     Is it no dream that nothing else remains
       Of all my torments but this answered cry,
     And have I had, O God, amid my chains,
       The happiness to die?
 
 
     "For none can tell what cause I had to pine,
     What pangs, what miseries, each day were mine;
     And when I wept there was no mother near
     To soothe my cries, and smile away my tear.
     Poor victim of a punishment unending,
       Torn like a sapling from its mother earth,
     So young, I could not tell what crime impending
       Had stained me from my birth.
 
 
     "Yet far off in dim memory it seems,
     With all its horror mingled happy dreams,
     Strange cries of glory rocked my sleeping head,
     And a glad people watched beside my bed.
     One day into mysterious darkness thrown,
       I saw the promise of my future close;
     I was a little child, left all alone,
       Alas! and I had foes.
 
 
     "They cast me living in a dreary tomb,
     Never mine eyes saw sunlight pierce the gloom,
     Only ye, brother angels, used to sweep
     Down from your heaven, and visit me in sleep.
     'Neath blood-red hands my young life withered there.
       Dear Lord, the bad are miserable all,
     Be not Thou deaf, like them, unto my prayer,
       It is for them I call."
 
 
     The angels sang: "See heaven's high arch unfold,
       Come, we will crown thee with the stars above,
     Will give thee cherub-wings of blue and gold,
       And thou shalt learn our ministry of love,
     Shalt rock the cradle where some mother's tears
       Are dropping o'er her restless little one,
     Or, with thy luminous breath, in distant spheres,
       Shalt kindle some cold sun."
 
 
     Ceased the full choir, all heaven was hushed to hear,
     Bowed the fair face, still wet with many a tear,
     In depths of space, the rolling worlds were stayed,
     Whilst the Eternal in the infinite said:
 
 
     "O king, I kept thee far from human state,
       Who hadst a dungeon only for thy throne,
     O son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter fate,
       The slavery of kings thou hast not known,
     What if thy wasted arms are bleeding yet,
       And wounded with the fetter's cruel trace,
     No earthly diadem has ever set
       A stain upon thy face.
 
 
     "Child, life and hope were with thee at thy birth,
     But life soon bowed thy tender form to earth,
       And hope forsook thee in thy hour of need.
     Come, for thy Saviour had His pains divine;
     Come, for His brow was crowned with thorns like thine,
       His sceptre was a reed."
 

Dublin University Magazine.

THE FEAST OF FREEDOM

("Lorsqu'à l'antique Olympe immolant l'evangile.")

{Bk. II. v., 1823.}

{There was in Rome one antique usage as follows: On the eve of the

execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet – at the prison

gate – known as the "Free Festival." – CHATEAUBRIAND'S "Martyrs."}

TO YE KINGS

 
     When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old
     By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold
             An idolatrous cause,
     Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout
     Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout
             Of "the People's" applause.
 
 
     On the eve of that day of their evenings the last!
     At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast,
             Rich, unstinted, unpriced,
     That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled,
     With an ignorant pity the jailers would spread
             For the martyrs of Christ.
 
 
     Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline
     On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine
             Fill'd his cup to the brim!
     Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose,
     Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose,
             All united for him!
 
 
     Every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse,
     In profusion procured was put forth to enhance
             The repast that they gave;
     And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight,
     Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night
             The elect of the grave.
 
 
     And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain,
     Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain
             The bloodthirsty arena;
     Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds
     And who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs
             Shame the restless hyena.
 
 
     They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve,
     In their turn on the morrow were destined to give
             To the lions their food;
     For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board,
     Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford,
             Death administering stood.
 
 
     Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power,
     But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour —
             'Tis your knell that it rings!
     To the popular tiger a prey is decreed,
     And the maw of Republican hunger will feed
             On a banquet of Kings!
 

"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK MAHONY)

GENIUS

(DEDICATED TO CHATEAUBRIAND.)

{Bk. IV. vi., July, 1822.}

 
         Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth,
           Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind,
         Bears Genius – treasure of celestial birth,
           Within his solitary soul enshrined.
         Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure,
           Like the undying vultures', will be driven
         Into his noble heart, that must endure
     Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven,
     Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven.
 
 
         Still though his destiny on earth may be
           Grief and injustice; who would not endure
         With joyful calm, each proffered agony;
           Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure?
         What mortal feeling kindled in his soul
           That clear celestial flame, so pure and high,
         O'er which nor time nor death can have control,
           Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly
           From sufferings whose reward is Immortality?
         No! though the clamors of the envious crowd
           Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise
 
 
         From the dull clod, borne by an effort proud
           Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities.
         'Tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread,
           Reposing o'er the tempest, from that height
         Sees the clouds reel and roll above our head,
     While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight,
     More upward soars sublime in heaven's eternal light.
 

MRS. TORRE HULME

THE GIRL OF OTAHEITE

("O! dis-moi, tu veux fuir?")

 

{Bk. IV, vii., Jan. 31, 1821.}

 
     Forget? Can I forget the scented breath
       Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear;
     The strange awaking from a dream of death,
       The sudden thrill to find thee coming near?
       Our huts were desolate, and far away
       I heard thee calling me throughout the day,
         No one had seen thee pass,
         Trembling I came. Alas!
                 Can I forget?
 
 
     Once I was beautiful; my maiden charms
       Died with the grief that from my bosom fell.
     Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms!
       Let there be no regrets and no farewell!
         Here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow,
         Here of thy fatherland we whispered low;
           Here, music, praise, and prayer
           Filled the glad summer air.
                 Can I forget?
 
 
     Forget? My dear old home must I forget?
       And wander forth and hear my people weep,
     Far from the woods where, when the sun has set,
       Fearless but weary to thy arms I creep;
         Far from lush flow'rets and the palm-tree's moan
         I could not live. Here let me rest alone!
           Go! I must follow nigh,
           With thee I'm doomed to die,
                 Never forget!
 

CLEMENT SCOTT

NERO'S INCENDIARY SONG

("Amis! ennui nous tue.")

{Bk. IV. xv., March, 1825.}

 
     Aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred,
     Come to the novel feast I spread, thrice-consul, Nero, lord,
     The Caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony,
     Who plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy.
 
 
     My joyful call should instantly bring all who love me most, —
     For ne'er were seen such arch delights from Greek or Roman host;
     Nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite of cynic vaunts,
     Austere but lenient Seneca no "Ercles" bumper daunts;
 
 
     Nor where upon the Tiber floats Aglae in galley gay,
     'Neath Asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous array;
     Nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy prefect flings
     A score of slaves, their fetters wreathed, to feed grim, greedy
     things.
 
 
     I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the whole town in a mass;
     Upon this tower we'll take our stand to watch the 'wildered pass;
     How paltry fights of men and beasts! here be my combatants, —
     The Seven Hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead the dance.
 
 
     This is more meet for him who rules to drive away his stress —
     He, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wilderness —
     But, haste! for night is darkling – soon, the festival it brings;
     Already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre wings,
 
 
     And mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling breaths;
     They tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted deaths;
     And 'neath caresses scorching hot the palaces decay —
     Oh, that I, too, could thus caress, and burn, and blight, and slay!
 
 
     Hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes! Are those real men or ghosts?
     The stillness spreads of Death abroad – down come the temple posts,
     Their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with silver waves
     To leap with hiss of thousand snakes where Tiber writhes and raves.
 
 
     All's lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues totter – crash!
     Spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust and ash.
     The victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north winds sound the horn
     To goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn.
 
 
     Proud capital! farewell for e'er! these flames nought can subdue —
     The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a bridge o'er hellish brew.
     'Tis Nero's whim! how good to see Rome brought the lowest down;
     Yet, Queen of all the earth, give thanks for such a splendrous crown!
 
 
     When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule to thee;
     That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent knee.
     Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this "immortal star"
     Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished – oh, how far!
 
 
     How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark!
     The youth who fired Ephesus' fane falls low beneath my mark.
     The pangs of people – when I sport, what matters? – See them whirl
     About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl.
 
 
     Take from my brow this poor rose-crown – the flames have made it pine;
     If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with Cretan wine!
     I like not overmuch that red – good taste says "gild a crime?"
     "To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs" is – thanks! a hint sublime!
 
 
     I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she not offer prayers
     Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ? – to e'en a Jew, she dares!
     Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all;
     Alone I rest – except this pile, I leave no single hall.
 
 
     Yet I destroy to build anew, and Rome shall fairer shine —
     But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not divine.
     The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete —
     And, slaves, bring in fresh roses – what odor is more sweet?
 

H.L. WILLIAMS

REGRET

("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passé.")

{Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.}

 
     Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!
       Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when
     We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined,
     Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find
       Ourselves alone again.
 
 
     Then, through the distant future's boundless space,
       We seek the lost companion of our days:
     "Return, return!" we cry, and lo, apace
     Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place
       Of that we mourn always.
 
 
     I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now,
       Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "Begone!
     Respect the cypress on my mournful brow,
     Lost Happiness hath left regret – but thou
Leavest remorse, alone."
 
 
     Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire,
       O friends, that in your revelry appears!
     With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire,
     And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre
       When it is wet with tears.
 
 
     Each in his secret heart perchance doth own
       Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed; —
     Sufferers alike together and alone
     Are we; with many a grief to others known,
       How many unrevealed!
 
 
     Alas! for natural tears and simple pains,
       For tender recollections, cherished long,
     For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains,
     We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains
       Only for sport and song!
 
 
     Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace:
       In vain I strove their parting to delay;
     Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space,
     Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face
       Lightens, and fades away.
 

Fraser's Magazine

THE MORNING OF LIFE

("Le voile du matin.")

{Bk. V. viii., April, 1822.}

 
     The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks,
       Old towers gleam white in the ray,
     And already the glory so joyously seeks
       The lark that's saluting the day.
 
 
     Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair,
       Though, were you swept hence in the night,
     From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare
       At the sun rising newly as bright.
 
 
     But out of earth's trammels your soul would have flown
       Where glitters Eternity's stream,
     And you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown,
       As sunshine disperses a dream.
 

BELOVED NAME

("Le parfum d'un lis.")

{Bk. V. xiii.}

 
     The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light,
       The latest murmur of departing day,
     Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight,
     The mystic farewell of each hour at flight,
       The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay, —
 
 
     The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow
       As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun;
     The thrilling accent of a voice we know,
     The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow,
       An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run, —
 
 
     The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh,
       Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame, —
     The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die, —
     The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie,
       Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME!
 
 
     Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine,
       Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound;
     Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine,
     The sacred word which at some hidden shrine,
       The selfsame voice forever makes resound!
 
 
     O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame,
       My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide,
     With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim,
     Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name,
     Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide, —
 
 
     Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing,
       Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear;
     To solemn harmonies attuned the string,
     As, music show'ring from his viewless wing,
       On heavenly airs some angel hovered near.
 

CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY)

THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD

("Oui, ce front, ce sourire.")

{Bk. V. xxii., November, 1825.}

 
     That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair,
       Beseem my child, who weeps and plays:
       A heavenly spirit guards her ways,
     From whom she stole that mixture rare.
       Through all her features shining mild,
     The poet sees an angel there,
       The father sees a child.
 
 
     And by their flame so pure and bright,
       We see how lately those sweet eyes
       Have wandered down from Paradise,
     And still are lingering in its light.
 
 
     All earthly things are but a shade
       Through which she looks at things above,
     And sees the holy Mother-maid,
       Athwart her mother's glance of love.
 
 
     She seems celestial songs to hear,
     And virgin souls are whispering near.
       Till by her radiant smile deceived,
         I say, "Young angel, lately given,
       When was thy martyrdom achieved?
         And what name lost thou bear in heaven?"
 

Dublin University Magazine.

BALLADES. – 1823-28.
THE GRANDMOTHER

("Dors-tu? mère de notre mère.")

{III., 1823.}

 
     "To die – to sleep." – SHAKESPEARE.
     Still asleep! We have been since the noon thus alone.
         Oh, the hours we have ceased to number!
     Wake, grandmother! – speechless say why thou art grown.
     Then, thy lips are so cold! – the Madonna of stone
         Is like thee in thy holy slumber.
     We have watched thee in sleep, we have watched thee at prayer,
         But what can now betide thee?
     Like thy hours of repose all thy orisons were,
     And thy lips would still murmur a blessing whene'er
         Thy children stood beside thee.
 
 
     Now thine eye is unclosed, and thy forehead is bent
         O'er the hearth, where ashes smoulder;
     And behold, the watch-lamp will be speedily spent.
     Art thou vexed? have we done aught amiss? Oh, relent!
         But – parent, thy hands grow colder!
     Say, with ours wilt thou let us rekindle in thine
         The glow that has departed?
     Wilt thou sing us some song of the days of lang syne?
     Wilt thou tell us some tale, from those volumes divine,
         Of the brave and noble-hearted?
 
 
     Of the dragon who, crouching in forest green glen,
         Lies in wait for the unwary —
     Of the maid who was freed by her knight from the den
     Of the ogre, whose club was uplifted, but then
         Turned aside by the wand of a fairy?
     Wilt thou teach us spell-words that protect from all harm,
         And thoughts of evil banish?
     What goblins the sign of the cross may disarm?
     What saint it is good to invoke? and what charm
         Can make the demon vanish?
 
 
     Or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book,
         So feared by hell and Satan;
     At its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look,
     At the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook,
         And the hymns and the prayers in Latin.
     Oft with legends of angels, who watch o'er the young,
         Thy voice was wont to gladden;
     Have thy lips yet no language – no wisdom thy tongue?
     Oh, see! the light wavers, and sinking, bath flung
         On the wall forms that sadden.
 
 
     Wake! awake! evil spirits perhaps may presume
         To haunt thy holy dwelling;
     Pale ghosts are, perhaps, stealing into the room —
     Oh, would that the lamp were relit! with the gloom
         These fearful thoughts dispelling.
     Thou hast told us our parents lie sleeping beneath
         The grass, in a churchyard lonely:
     Now, thine eyes have no motion, thy mouth has no breath,
     And thy limbs are all rigid! Oh, say, Is this death,
         Or thy prayer or thy slumber only?
 
 
     ENVOY.
 
 
     Sad vigil they kept by that grandmother's chair,
         Kind angels hovered o'er them —
     And the dead-bell was tolled in the hamlet – and there,
     On the following eve, knelt that innocent pair,
         With the missal-book before them.
 

"FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY).