The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, Will scarce delay the passer-by; The tower by war or tempest bent, While yet may frown one battlement, Demands and daunts the stranger's eye; Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, Pleads haughtily for glories gone! 'His floating robe around him folding, Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle ;
With dread beheld, with gloom beholding The rites that sanctify the pile. But when the anthem shakes the choir, And kneel the monks, his steps retire; By yonder lone and wavering torch His aspect glares within the porch; There will he pause till all is done- And hear the prayer, but utter none. See-by the half-illumined wall His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, That pale brow wildly wreathing round, As if the Gorgon there had bound The sablest of the serpent-braid That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd; For he declines the convent oath,
And leaves those locks' unhallow'd growth, But wears our garb in all beside; And, not from piety but pride,
Gives wealth to walls that never heard Of his one holy vow nor word. Lo!-mark ye, as the harmony Peals louder praises to the sky, That livid cheek, that stony air Of mix'd defiance and despair! Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine! Else may we dread the wrath divine Made manifest by awful sign. If ever evil angel bore
The form of mortal, such he wore : By all my hope of sins forgiven,
Such looks are not of earth nor heaven!' To love the softest hearts are prone, But such can ne'er be all his own; Too timid in his woes to share, Too meek to meet or brave despair; And sterner hearts alone may feel The wound that time can never heal. The rugged metal of the mine Must burn before its surface shine, But plunged within the furnace-flame,
It bends and melts-though still the same; Then, temper'd to thy want, or will, "Twill serve thee to defend or kill; A breastplate for thine hour of need, Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed; But if a dagger's form it bear, Let those who shape its edge beware! Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, Can turn and tame the sterner heart; From these its form and tone are ta'en, And what they make it, must remain, But break-before it bend again.
If solitude succeed to grief, Release from pain is slight relief; The vacant bosom's wilderness
Might thank the pang that made it less. We loathe what none are left to share : Even bliss-'twere woe alone to bear; The heart once left thus desolate Must fly at last for ease-to hate. It is as if the dead could feel The icy worm around them steal, And shudder, as the reptile creep To revel o'er their rotting sleep, Without the power to scare away The cold consumers of their clay! It is as if the desert-bird, *
Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, Should rend her rash devoted breast, And find them flown her empty nest. The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind,
The waste of feelings unemploy'd. Who would be doom'd to gaze upon A sky without a cloud or sun? Less hideous far the tempest's roar Than ne'er to brave the billows more-- Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, Unseen to drop by dull decay ;- Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
'Father! thy days have pass'd in peace 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer To bid the sins of others cease,
Thyself without a crime or care, Save transient ills that all must bear, Has been thy lot from youth to age; And thou wilt bless thee from the rage Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd, Such as thy penitents unfold, Whose secret sins and sorrows rest Within thy pure and pitying breast. My days, though few, have pass'd below In much of joy, but more of woe; Yet still, in hours of love or strife, I've 'scaped the weariness of life:
Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, I loathed the languor of repose. Now nothing left to love or hate, No more with hope or pride elate, I'd rather be the thing that crawls Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, Than pass my dull, unvarying days, Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. Yet lurks a wish within my breast For rest-but not to feel 'tis rest.
The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the inputation of feeding her chickens with her blocd.
The wall is rent, the ruins yawn; And with to-morrow's earliest dawn, O'er the disjointed mass shall vault The foremost of the fierce assault. The bands are rank'd; the chosen van Of Tartar and of Mussulman, The full of hope, misnamed 'forlorn,' Who hold the thought of death in scorn, And win their way with falchion's force, Or pave the path with many a corse, O'er which the following brave may rise, Their stepping-stone-the last who dies!
'Tis midnight: on the mountains brown The cold, round moon shines deeply down; Blue roll the waters, blue the sky Spreads like an ocean hung on high, Bespangled with those isles of light, So wildly, spiritually bright; Who ever gazed upon them shining And turn'd to earth without repining, Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, And mix with their eternal ray? The waves on either shore lay there Calm, clear, and azure as the air; And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, But murmur'd meekly as the brook. The winds were pillow'd on the waves; The banners droop'd along their staves, And, as they fell around them furling, Above them shone the crescent curling; And that deep silence was unbroke, Save where the watch his signal spoke, Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, And echo answer'd from the hill, And the wide hum of that wild host Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, As rose the Muezzin's voice in air In midnight call to wonted prayer; It rose, that chanted mournful strain, Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, And take a long unmeasured tone, To mortal minstrelsy unknown. It seem'd to those within the wall
A cry prophetic of their fall; It struck even the besieger's ear With something ominous and drear, An undefined and sudden thrill, Which makes the heart a moment still, Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed Of that strange sense its silence framed; Such as a sudden passing-bell
Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. XII.
The tent of Alp was on the shore; The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er; The watch was set, the night-round made, All mandates issued and obey'd:
'Tis but another anxious night, His pains the morrow may requite With all revenge and love can pay, In guerdon for their long delay. Few hours remain, and he hath need Of rest, to nerve for many a deed Of slaughter; but within his soul The thoughts like troubled waters roll. He stood alone among the host; Not his the loud fanatic boast To plant the crescent o'er the cross, Or risk a life with little loss, Secure in paradise to be By Houris loved immortally: Nor his, what burning patriots feel, The stern exaltedness of zeal, Profuse of blood, untired in toil, When battling on the parent soil. He stood alone-a renegade Against the country he betray'd; He stood alone amidst his band, Without a trusted heart or hand : They follow'd him, for he was brave, And great the spoil he got and gave; They crouch'd to him, for he had skill To warp and wield the vulgar will: But still his Christian origin With them was little less than sin. They envied even the faithless fame He earn'd beneath a Moslem naine; Since he, their mightiest chief, had been In youth a bitter Nazarene.
They did not know how pride can stoop, When baffled feelings withering droop; They did not know how hate can burn In hearts once changed from soft to stern; Nor all the false and fatal zeal
The convert of revenge can feel.
He ruled them-man may rule the worst, By ever daring to be first;
So lions o'er the jackal sway;
The jackal points, he fells the prey, Then on the vulgar yelling press, To gorge the relics of success.
His head grows fever'd, and his pulse The quick successive throbs convulse: In vain from side to side he throws His form, in courtship of repose; Or if he dozed, a sound, a start Awoke him with a sunken heart. The turban on his hot brow press'd, The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, Though oft and long beneath its weight Upon his eyes had slumber sate, Without or couch or canopy, Except a rougher field and sky Than now might yield a warrior's bed, Than now along the heaven was spread. He could not rest, he could not stay Within his tent to wait for day, But walk'd him forth along the sand, Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand.
One cry to Mahomet for aid, One prayer to Alla all he made : He knew and cross'd me in the fray- I gazed upon him where he lay, And watch'd his spirit ebb away: Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel He felt not half that now I feel.
I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find The workings of the wounded mind; Each feature of that sullen corse Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace Despair upon his dying face! The late repentance of that hour, When Penitence hath lost her power To tear one terror from the grave, And will not soothe, and cannot save.
The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name; But mine was like the lava flood,
That boils in Ætna's breast of flame. I cannot prate in puling strain Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : If changing cheek, and scorching vein, Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, And daring deed, and vengeful steel, And all that I have felt and feel, Betoken love-that love was mine, And shown by many a bitter sign. 'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, I knew but to obtain or die.
I die-but first, I have possess'd, And come what may, I have been bless'd. Shall I the doom I sought upbraid? No-reft of all, yet undismay'd, But for the thought of Leila slain, Give me the pleasure with the pain, So would I live and love again. I grieve-but not, my holy guide! For him who dies, but her who died : She sleeps beneath the wandering wave- Ah! had she but an earthly grave, This breaking heart and throbbing head Should seek and share her narrow bed. She was a form of life and light, That, seen, became a part of sight, And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, The Morning-star of Memory!
'Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Alla given
To lift from earth our low desire. Devotion wafts the mind above, But Heaven itself descends in love; A feeling from the Godhead caught, To wean from self each sordid thought; A Ray of Him who form'd the whole; A Glory circling round the soul! I grant my love imperfect, all That mortals by the name miscall;
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt; But say, oh say, hers was not guilt! She was my life's unerring light: [night? That quench'd, what beam shall break my Oh! would it shone to lead me still, Although to death or deadliest ill! Why marvel ye, if they who lose
This present joy, this future hope. No more with sorrow meekly cope; In frenzy then their fate accuse; In madness do those fearful deeds
That seem to add but guilt to woe? Alas! the breast that inly bleeds
Hath nought to dread from outward blow: Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss. Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now To thee, old man, my deeds appear: I read abhorrence on thy brow,
And this too was I born to bear ! 'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, With havoc have I mark'd my way: But this was taught me by the dove, To die-and know no second love. This lesson yet hath man to learn, Taught by the thing he dares to spurn: The bird that sings within the brake, The swan that swims upon the lake, One mate, and one alone, will take. And let the fool still prone to range, And sneer on all who cannot change, Partake his jest with boasting boys; I envy not his varied joys,
But deem such feeble, heartless man, Less than yon solitary swan; Far, far beneath the shallow maid He left believing and betray'd. Such shame at least was never mine- Leila! each thought was only thine! My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, My hope on high-my all below. Earth holds no other like to thee, Or, if it doth, in vain for me: For worlds I dare not view the dame Resembling thee, yet not the same. The very crimes that mar my youth, This bed of death-attest my truth! "Tis all too late-thou wert, thou art The cherish'd madness of my heart!
'And she was lost-and yet I breathed, But not the breath of human life; A serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my every thought to strife. Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, Shuddering, I shrank from Nature's face, Where every hue that charm'd before, The blackness of my bosom wore. The rest thou dost already know, And all my sins, and half my woe. But talk no more of penitence;
Thou seest I soon shall part from hence: And if thy holy tale were true,
The deed that's done, canst thou undo?
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed;
So well had they broken a lingering fast With those who had fall'n for that night's repast. And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand,
The foremost of these were the best of his band: Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,* All the rest was shaven and bare. The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, The hair was tangled round his jaw. But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, Scared by the dogs, from the human prey; But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. XVII.
Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight: Never had shaken his nerves in fight; But he better could brook to behold the dying, Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. There is something of pride in the perilous hour, Whate'er be the shape in which death may For Fame is there to say who bleeds, [lower; And Honour's eye on daring deeds!
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there; All regarding man as their prey,
All rejoicing in his decay.
There is a temple in ruin stands, Fashion'd by long-forgotten hands; Two or three columns, and many a stone, Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown! Out upon Time! it will leave no more Of the things to come than the things before! Out upon Time! who for ever will leave But enough of the past for the future to grieve O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be:
What we have seen, our sons shall see ; Remnants of things that have pass'd away, Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay!
He sate him down at a pillar's base, And pass'd his hand athwart his face; Like one in dreary musing mood, Declining was his attitude;
projects between the wall and the water. I think the fact is also mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies were probably those of some refractory Janizaries.
This trft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that Mahomet will draw them into paradise by it,
His head was drooping on his breast, Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest; And o'er his brow, so downward bent, Oft his beating fingers went, Hurriedly, as you may see
Your own run over the ivory key, Ere the measured tone is taken By the chords you would awaken. There he sate all heavily,
As he heard the night-wind sigh. Was it the wind, through some hollow Sent that soft and tender moan?
[stone,* He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, But it was unrippled as glass may be; He look'd on the long grass-it waved not a blade;
How was that gentle sound convey'd? He look'd to the banners-each flag lay still, So did the leaves on Citharon's hill, And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; What did that sudden sound bespeak? He turn'd to the left-is he sure of sight? There sate a lady, youthful and bright!
He started up with more of fear Than if an armed foe were near. 'God of my fathers! what is here? Who art thiou, and wherefore sent So near a hostile armament?' His trembling hands refused to sign The cross he deem'd no more divine: He had resumed it in that hour, But conscience wrung away the power. He gazed, he saw; he knew the face Of beauty, and the form of grace, It was Francesca by his side,
The maid who might have been his bride!
The rose was yet upon her check, But mellow'd with a tenderer streak: Where was the play of her soft lips fled? Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. The ocean's calm within their view, Beside her eye had less of blue; But like that cold wave it stood still, And its glance, though clear, was chill. Around her form a thin robe twining, Nought conceal'd her bosom shining; Through the parting of her hair, Floating darkly downward there,
Her rounded arm show'd white and bare: And ere yet she made reply,
Once she raised her hand on high; It was so wan and transparent of hue, You might have seen the moon shine through.
I must here acknowledge a close though unintentional resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an unpub lished poem of Mr Coleridge, called Christabel. It was not till after these lines were written that I heard that wild and singularly original and beautiful poem recited: and the MS. of that production I never saw till very recently, by the kind. ness of Mr Coleridge himself, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful plagiarist."
'I come from my rest to him I love best, That I may be happy, and he may be blest. I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall; Sought thee in safety through foes and all. "Tis said the lion will turn and flee From a maid in the pride of her purity: And the Power on high that can shield the good Thus from the tyrant of the wood,
Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well From the hands of the leaguering infidel. I come and if I come in vain, Never, oh never, we meet again! Thou hast done a fearful deed
In falling away from thy fathers' creed : But dash that turban to earth, and sign The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine; Wring the black drop from thy heart, And to-morrow unites us no more to part.'
'And where should our bridal-couch be spread? In the midst of the dying and the dead?
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, Shall be left upon the morn:
But thee will I bear to a lovely spot,
Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sor row forgot.
There thou yet shalt be my bride, When once again I've quell'd the pride Of Venice; and her hated race
Have felt the arm they would debase Scourge, with the whip of scorpions, those Whom vice and envy made my foes.'
Upon his hand she laid her own-
Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, And shot a chillness to his heart, Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, He could not loose him from its hold: But never did clasp of one so dear Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, As those thin fingers, long and white, [night. Froze through his blood by their touch that The feverish glow of his brow was gone, And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, So deeply changed from what he knew: Fair but faint-without the ray
Of mind, that made each feature play Like sparkling waves on a sunny day; And her motionless lips lay still as death, And her words came forth without her breath, And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's sweli, And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell:
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air,
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight; As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down
From the shadowy wall where their images As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. Fearfully flitting to and fro, [frown;
'If not for love of me be given
Thus much, then for the love of Heaven,-. Again I say-that turban tear
From off thy faithless brow, and swear Thine injured country's sons to spare, Or thou art lost; and never shalt see- Not earth-that's past-but heaven or me. If this thou dost accord, albeit
A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, That doom shall half absolve thy sin, And mercy's gate may receive thee within. But pause one moment more, and take The curse of Him thou didst forsake; And look once more to heaven, and see Its love for ever shut from thee. There is a light cloud by the moon 'Tis passing, and will pass full soon- If, by the time its vapoury sail Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, Thy heart within thee is not changed, Then God and man are both avenged; Dark will thy doom be, darker still Thine immortality of ill.'
Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high The sign she spake of in the sky; But his heart was swoll'n, and turn'd aside, By deep interminable pride.
This first false passion of his breast Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. He sue for mercy! He dismay'd By wild words of a timid maid! He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save Her sons, devoted to the grave! No-though that cloud were thunder's worst, And charged to crush him-let it burst!
He look'd upon it earnestly, Without an accent of reply; He watch'd it passing; it is flown: Full on his eye the clear moon shone, And thus he spake: Whate'er my fate, I am no changeling-'tis too late: The reed in storms may bow and quiver, Then rise again; the tree must shiver. What Venice made me I must be, Her foe in all, save love to thee: But thou art safe: oh, fly with me!'
I have been told that the idea expressed in this and the five following lines has been admired by those whose approun-least not mine; it may be found much better expressed in bation is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is not original-at
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, And the glance that it gave was wild and
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream;
pages 182-184 of the English version of lathe (I forget the precise page of the French), a work to which I have "before referred; and never recur to, or read, withcat a renewal of gratification.
« AnteriorContinuar » |