Poems

EXPECTATION

("Moune, écureuil.")

{xx.}

 
     Squirrel, mount yon oak so high,
     To its twig that next the sky
         Bends and trembles as a flower!
     Strain, O stork, thy pinion well, —
     From thy nest 'neath old church-bell,
     Mount to yon tall citadel,
         And its tallest donjon tower!
     To your mountain, eagle old,
     Mount, whose brow so white and cold,
         Kisses the last ray of even!
     And, O thou that lov'st to mark
     Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark,
     Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark —
         Joyous lark, O mount to heaven!
     And now say, from topmost bough,
     Towering shaft, and peak of snow,
         And heaven's arch – O, can you see
     One white plume that like a star,
     Streams along the plain afar,
     And a steed that from the war
         Bears my lover back to me?
 

JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

THE LOVER'S WISH

("Si j'étais la feuille.")

{XXII., September, 1828.}

 
     Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West,
       His course through the forest uncaring;
     To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast
       In a pendulous cradle is bearing.
 
 
     All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste,
       As the dewdrops upon me were glancing;
     When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste,
       And round her the breezes are dancing.
 
 
     On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush
       Thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver;
     Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush,
       And the murmuring fall of the river.
 
 
     By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane,
       To catch the sweet breath of the roses;
     Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain
       'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.
 
 
     Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky,
       Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring;
     Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh,
       And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.
 
 
     On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way,
       A charm that would lead to the bower;
     Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day,
       At the dawn and the vesper hour.
 
 
     Then hovering down on her brow would I light,
       'Midst her golden tresses entwining;
     That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright,
       And the sunbeams upon it shining.
 
 
     A single frail gem on her beautiful head,
       I should sit in the golden glory;
     And prouder I'd be than the diadem spread
       Round the brow of kings famous in story.
 

V., Eton Observer.

THE SACKING OF THE CITY

("La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!")

{XXIII., November, 1825.}

 
     Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume,
       The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks;
     Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,
       Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks.
 
 
     Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high,
       Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel;
     Prostrate, the palaces, huge tombs of fire, lie,
       While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel!
 
 
     Died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms,
       O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight;
     With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms,
       At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.
 
 
     Lo! where the city lies mantled in pall of death;
       Lo! where thy mighty hand hath passed, all things must bend!
     Priests prayed, the sword estopped blaspheming breath,
       Vainly their cheating book for shield did they extend.
 
 
     Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel
       Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian-kind,
     To kiss thy sandall'd foot, O King, thy people kneel,
       And golden circlets to thy victor-ankle bind.
 

JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

NOORMAHAL THE FAIR.{1}

("Entre deux rocs d'un noir d'ébène.")

{XXVII., November, 1828.}

 
     Between two ebon rocks
       Behold yon sombre den,
     Where brambles bristle like the locks
       Of wool between the horns of scapegoat banned by men!
 
 
     Remote in ruddy fog
       Still hear the tiger growl
     At the lion and stripèd dog
       That prowl with rusty throats to taunt and roar and howl;
 
 
     Whilst other monsters fast
       The hissing basilisk;
     The hippopotamus so vast,
       And the boa with waking appetite made brisk!
 
 
     The orfrey showing tongue,
       The fly in stinging mood,
     The elephant that crushes strong
       And elastic bamboos an the scorpion's brood;
 
 
     And the men of the trees
       With their families fierce,
     Till there is not one scorching breeze
       But brings here its venom – its horror to pierce —
 
 
     Yet, rather there be lone,
       'Mid all those horrors there,
     Than hear the sickly honeyed tone
       And see the swimming eyes of Noormahal the Fair!
 

{Footnote 1: Noormahal (Arabic) the light of the house; some of the

Orientals deem fair hair and complexion a beauty.}

THE DJINNS

("Murs, ville et port.")

{XXVIII., Aug. 28, 1828.}

 
           Town, tower,
             Shore, deep,
           Where lower
             Cliff's steep;
           Waves gray,
           Where play
           Winds gay,
             All sleep.
 
 
         Hark! a sound,
           Far and slight,
         Breathes around
           On the night
         High and higher,
         Nigh and nigher,
         Like a fire,
           Roaring, bright.
 
 
         Now, on 'tis sweeping
           With rattling beat,
         Like dwarf imp leaping
           In gallop fleet
         He flies, he prances,
         In frolic fancies,
         On wave-crest dances
           With pattering feet.
 
 
         Hark, the rising swell,
           With each new burst!
         Like the tolling bell
           Of a convent curst;
         Like the billowy roar
         On a storm-lashed shore, —
         Now hushed, but once more
           Maddening to its worst.
 
 
         O God! the deadly sound
           Of the Djinn's fearful cry!
         Quick, 'neath the spiral round
           Of the deep staircase fly!
         See, see our lamplight fade!
         And of the balustrade
         Mounts, mounts the circling shade
           Up to the ceiling high!
 
 
       'Tis the Djinns' wild streaming swarm
         Whistling in their tempest flight;
       Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm,
         Like a pine flame crackling bright.
       Swift though heavy, lo! their crowd
       Through the heavens rushing loud
       Like a livid thunder-cloud
         With its bolt of fiery might!
 
 
     Ho! they are on us, close without!
       Shut tight the shelter where we lie!
     With hideous din the monster rout,
       Dragon and vampire, fill the sky!
     The loosened rafter overhead
     Trembles and bends like quivering reed;
     Shakes the old door with shuddering dread,
       As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly!
 
 
     Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek!
       The horrid troop before the tempest tossed —
     O Heaven! – descends my lowly roof to seek:
       Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host.
     Totters the house as though, like dry leaf shorn
     From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne,
     Up from its deep foundations it were torn
       To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost!
 
 
         O Prophet! if thy hand but now
           Save from these hellish things,
         A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow,
           Laden with pious offerings.
         Bid their hot breath its fiery rain
         Stream on the faithful's door in vain;
         Vainly upon my blackened pane
           Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings!
 
 
       They have passed! – and their wild legion
         Cease to thunder at my door;
       Fleeting through night's rayless region,
         Hither they return no more.
       Clanking chains and sounds of woe
       Fill the forests as they go;
       And the tall oaks cower low,
         Bent their flaming light before.
 
 
       On! on! the storm of wings
         Bears far the fiery fear,
       Till scarce the breeze now brings
         Dim murmurings to the ear;
       Like locusts' humming hail,
       Or thrash of tiny flail
       Plied by the fitful gale
         On some old roof-tree sere.
 
 
           Fainter now are borne
             Feeble mutterings still;
           As when Arab horn
             Swells its magic peal,
           Shoreward o'er the deep
           Fairy voices sweep,
           And the infant's sleep
             Golden visions fill.
 
 
           Each deadly Djinn,
             Dark child of fright,
           Of death and sin,
             Speeds in wild flight.
           Hark, the dull moan,
           Like the deep tone
           Of Ocean's groan,
             Afar, by night!
 
 
           More and more
             Fades it slow,
           As on shore
             Ripples flow, —
           As the plaint
           Far and faint
           Of a saint
             Murmured low.
 
 
           Hark! hist!
             Around,
           I list!
             The bounds
               Of space
               All trace
               Efface
             Of sound.
 

JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

THE OBDURATE BEAUTY

("A Juana la Grenadine!")

 

{XXIX., October, 1843.}

 
     To Juana ever gay,
     Sultan Achmet spoke one day
       "Lo, the realms that kneel to own
       Homage to my sword and crown
     All I'd freely cast away,
       Maiden dear, for thee alone."
 
 
     "Be a Christian, noble king!
     For it were a grievous thing:
       Love to seek and find too well
       In the arms of infidel.
     Spain with cry of shame would ring,
       If from honor faithful fell."
 
 
     "By these pearls whose spotless chain,
     Oh, my gentle sovereign,
       Clasps thy neck of ivory,
       Aught thou askest I will be,
     If that necklace pure of stain
       Thou wilt give for rosary."
 

JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

DON RODRIGO

A MOORISH BALLAD

("Don Roderique est à la chasse.")

{XXX., May, 1828.}

 
     Unto the chase Rodrigo's gone,
       With neither lance nor buckler;
     A baleful light his eyes outshone —
       To pity he's no truckler.
 
 
     He follows not the royal stag,
       But, full of fiery hating,
     Beside the way one sees him lag,
       Impatient at the waiting.
 
 
     He longs his nephew's blood to spill,
       Who 'scaped (the young Mudarra)
     That trap he made and laid to kill
       The seven sons of Lara.
 
 
     Along the road – at last, no balk —
       A youth looms on a jennet;
     He rises like a sparrow-hawk
       About to seize a linnet.
 
 
     "What ho!" "Who calls?" "Art Christian knight,
       Or basely born and boorish,
     Or yet that thing I still more slight —
       The spawn of some dog Moorish?
 
 
     "I seek the by-born spawn of one
       I e'er renounce as brother —
     Who chose to make his latest son
       Caress a Moor as mother.
 
 
     "I've sought that cub in every hole,
       'Midland, and coast, and islet,
     For he's the thief who came and stole
       Our sheathless jewelled stilet."
 
 
     "If you well know the poniard worn
       Without edge-dulling cover —
     Look on it now – here, plain, upborne!
       And further be no rover.
 
 
     "Tis I – as sure as you're abhorred
       Rodrigo – cruel slayer,
     'Tis I am Vengeance, and your lord,
       Who bids you crouch in prayer!
 
 
     "I shall not grant the least delay —
       Use what you have, defending,
     I'll send you on that darksome way
       Your victims late were wending.
 
 
     "And if I wore this, with its crest —
       Our seal with gems enwreathing —
     In open air – 'twas in your breast
       To seek its fated sheathing!"
 

CORNFLOWERS

("Tandis que l'étoile inodore.")

{XXXII.}

 
     While bright but scentless azure stars
       Be-gem the golden corn,
     And spangle with their skyey tint
       The furrows not yet shorn;
     While still the pure white tufts of May
       Ape each a snowy ball, —
     Away, ye merry maids, and haste
       To gather ere they fall!
 
 
     Nowhere the sun of Spain outshines
       Upon a fairer town
     Than Peñafiel, or endows
       More richly farming clown;
     Nowhere a broader square reflects
       Such brilliant mansions, tall, —
     Away, ye merry maids, etc.
 
 
     Nowhere a statelier abbey rears
       Dome huger o'er a shrine,
     Though seek ye from old Rome itself
       To even Seville fine.
     Here countless pilgrims come to pray
      And promenade the Mall, —
     Away, ye merry maids, etc.
 
 
     Where glide the girls more joyfully
       Than ours who dance at dusk,
     With roses white upon their brows,
       With waists that scorn the busk?
     Mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes —
       Compared with these, how small!
     Away, ye merry maids, etc.
 
 
     A blossom in a city lane,
       Alizia was our pride,
     And oft the blundering bee, deceived,
       Came buzzing to her side —
     But, oh! for one that felt the sting,
       And found, 'neath honey, gall —
     Away, ye merry maids, etc.
 
 
     Young, haughty, from still hotter lands,
       A stranger hither came —
     Was he a Moor or African,
       Or Murcian known to fame?
     None knew – least, she – or false or true,
       The name by which to call.
     Away, ye merry maids, etc.
 
 
     Alizia asked not his degree,
       She saw him but as Love,
     And through Xarama's vale they strayed,
       And tarried in the grove, —
     Oh! curses on that fatal eve,
       And on that leafy hall!
     Away, ye merry maids, etc.
 
 
     The darkened city breathed no more;
       The moon was mantled long,
     Till towers thrust the cloudy cloak
       Upon the steeples' throng;
     The crossway Christ, in ivy draped,
       Shrank, grieving, 'neath the pall, —
     Away, ye merry maids, etc.
 
 
     But while, alone, they kept the shade,
       The other dark-eyed dears
     Were murmuring on the stifling air
       Their jealous threats and fears;
     Alizia was so blamed, that time,
       Unheeded rang the call:
     Away, ye merry maids, etc.
 
 
     Although, above, the hawk describes
       The circle round the lark,
     It sleeps, unconscious, and our lass
       Had eyes but for her spark —
     A spark? – a sun!  'Twas Juan, King!
       Who wears our coronal, —
     Away, ye merry maids, etc.
 
 
     A love so far above one's state
       Ends sadly. Came a black
     And guarded palanquin to bear
       The girl that ne'er comes back;
     By royal writ, some nunnery
       Still shields her from us all
     Away, ye merry maids, and haste
       To gather ere they fall!
 

H. L. WILLIAMS

MAZEPPA

("Ainsi, lorsqu'un mortel!")

{XXXIV., May, 1828.}

 
     As when a mortal – Genius' prize, alack!
     Is, living, bound upon thy fatal back,
         Thou reinless racing steed!
     In vain he writhes, mere cloud upon a star,
     Thou bearest him as went Mazeppa, far
         Out of the flow'ry mead, —
     So – though thou speed'st implacable, (like him,
     Spent, pallid, torn, bruised, weary, sore and dim,
         As if each stride the nearer bring
     Him to the grave) – when comes the time,
     After the fall, he rises – KING!
 

H.L. WILLIAMS

THE DANUBE IN WRATH

("Quoi! ne pouvez-vous vivre ensemble?")

{XXXV., June, 1828.}

 
     The River Deity upbraids his Daughters, the contributary Streams: —
 
 
     Ye daughters mine! will naught abate
     Your fierce interminable hate?
     Still am I doomed to rue the fate
       That such unfriendly neighbors made?
     The while ye might, in peaceful cheer,
     Mirror upon your waters clear,
     Semlin! thy Gothic steeples dear,
       And thy bright minarets, Belgrade!
 

Fraser's Magazine

OLD OCEAN

("J'étais seul près des flots.")

{XXXVII., September 5, 1828.}

 
     I stood by the waves, while the stars soared in sight,
     Not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright;
       Scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eye;
     And the woods, and the hills, and all nature around,
     Seem'd to question with moody, mysterious sound,
       The waves, and the pure stars on high.
     And the clear constellations, that infinite throng,
     While thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song,
       Replying, bowed meekly their diamond-blaze —
     And the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest,
     Chorus'd forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest
       "Creator! we bless thee and praise!"
 

R.C. ELLWOOD

MY NAPOLEON

("Toujours lui! lui partout!")

{XL., December, 1828.}

 
     Above all others, everywhere I see
       His image cold or burning!
     My brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free
       The thoughts within me yearning.
     My quivering lips pour forth the words
       That cluster in his name of glory —
     The star gigantic with its rays of swords
       Whose gleams irradiate all modern story.
 
 
     I see his finger pointing where the shell
       Should fall to slay most rabble,
     And save foul regicides; or strike the knell
       Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble.
     A Consul then, o'er young but proud,
       With midnight poring thinned, and sallow,
     But dreams of Empire pierce the transient cloud,
       And round pale face and lank locks form the halo.
 
 
     And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame
       Whole nations' contact urging
     To gain his soldiers gold and fame
       Oh, Sun on high emerging,
     Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells
       Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose
     To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells,
       Into his host of half-a-million heroes!
 
 
     What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart.
       No weight of arms enfolded
     Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart
       Which Nature – not her journeymen – self-moulded.
     Let sordid jailers vex their prize;
       But only bends that brow to lightning,
     As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs
       Cleave through the storm and haste where France looms bright'ning.
 
 
     Alone, but greater! Broke the sceptre, true!
       Yet lingers still some power —
     In tears of woe man's metal may renew
       The temper of high hour;
     For, bating breath, e'er list the kings
       The pinions clipped may grow! the Eagle
     May burst, in frantic thirst for home, the rings
       And rend the Bulldog, Fox, and Bear, and Beagle!
 
 
     And, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and here
       Eternal brightness coming!
     The eye so weary's freshened with a tear
       As rises distant drumming,
     And wailing cheer – they pass the pale
       His army mourns though still's the end hid;
     And from his war-stained cloak, he answers "Hail!"
       And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid!
 

H.L. WILLIAMS.

LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE. – 1831.
THE PATIENCE OF THE PEOPLE

("Il s'est dit tant de fois.")

 

{III., May, 1830.}

 
     How often have the people said: "What's power?"
     Who reigns soon is dethroned? each fleeting hour
     Has onward borne, as in a fevered dream,
     Such quick reverses, like a judge supreme —
     Austere but just, they contemplate the end
     To which the current of events must tend.
     Self-confidence has taught them to forbear,
     And in the vastness of their strength, they spare.
     Armed with impunity, for one in vain     Resists a nation, they let others reign.
 

G.W.M. REYNOLDS.

DICTATED BEFORE THE RHONE GLACIER

("Souvent quand mon esprit riche.")

{VII., May 18, 1828.}

 
     When my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled,
     Floats on in repose round this wonderful world,
         Oft the sacred fire from heaven —
     Mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul —
     Strikes mine with its ray, and above the pole
         Its upward course is driven,
 
 
     Like a wandering cloud, then, my eager thought
     Capriciously flies, to no guidance brought,
         With every quarter's wind;
     It regards from those radiant vaults on high,
     Earth's cities below, and again doth fly,
         And leaves but its shadow behind.
 
 
     In the glistening gold of the morning bright,
     It shines, detaching some lance of light,
         Or, as warrior's armor rings;
     It forages forests that ferment around,
     Or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found,
         Where the west its radiance flings.
 
 
     Or, on mountain peak, that rears its head
     Where snow-clad Alps around are spread,
         By furious gale 'tis thrown.
     From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away,
     And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray,
         The giant mountain's crown!
 
 
     Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled,
     In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed;
         On its side the rainbow plays,
     And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below,
     The last slanting ray on its crest of snow
         Makes its cap like a crater to blaze.
 
 
     In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light,
     The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight,
         The eagle afar is driven;
     The deluge but roars in despair to its feet,
     And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet,
         So near doth it rise to heaven.
 
 
     Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear,
     Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near;
         On the starry vault to gaze,
     And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night,
     On th' horizon high heaving, like arches of light,
         Till again the sun shall blaze.
 
 
     For then will the glacier with glory be graced,
     On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed,
         The morn its echoes greet;
     Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life,
     Like Chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife,
         When waters on waters meet.
 
 
     As the spirit of poesy touches my thought,
     It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought,
         From earth, with the waters of pain.
     As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends,
     These fly to the heavens – their course never ends,
         But descend to the ocean again.
 

Author of "Critical Essays."