605 | And the cold flowers |
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain’d | |
As if she scarcely felt, but feign’d a sleep, | |
And made it almost mockery yet to weep: | |
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, | |
610 | And veil’d – thought shrinks from all that lurk’d below – |
Oh! o’er the eye Death most exerts his might, | |
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light! | |
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, | |
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips – | |
615 | Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, |
And wish’d repose – but only for a while; | |
But the white shroud, and each extended tress, | |
Long – fair – but spread in utter lifelessness, | |
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, | |
620 | Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind; |
These – and the pale pure cheek, became the bier – | |
But she is nothing – wherefore is he here? | |
XXI | |
He ask’d no question – all were answer’d now | |
By the first glance on that still – marble brow. | |
625 | It was enough – she died – what reck’d it how? |
The love of youth, the hope of better years, | |
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, | |
The only living thing he could not hate, | |
Was reft at once – and he deserved his fate, | |
630 | But did not feel it less; – the good explore, |
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar: | |
The proud – the wayward – who have fix’d below | |
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, | |
Lose in that one their all – perchance a mite – | |
635 | But who in patience parts with all delight? |
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern | |
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; | |
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, | |
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. | |
XXII | |
640 | By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest |
The indistinctness of the suffering breast; | |
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, | |
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none; | |
No words suffice the secret soul to show, | |
645 | For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. |
On Conrad’s stricken soul exhaustion prest, | |
And stupor almost lull’d it into rest; | |
So feeble now – his mother’s softness crept | |
To those wild eyes, which like an infant’s wept: | |
650 | It was the very weakness of his brain, |
Which thus confess’d without relieving pain | |
None saw his trickling tears – perchance, if seen, | |
That useless flood of grief had never been: | |
Nor long they flow’d – he dried them to depart, | |
655 | In helpless – hopeless – brokenness of heart: |
The sun goes forth – but Conrad’s day is dim; | |
And the night cometh – ne’er to pass from him. | |
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, | |
On Grief’s vain eye – the blindest of the blind! | |
660 | Which may not – dare not see – but turns aside |
To blackest shade – nor will endure a guide! | |
XXIII | |
His heart was form’d for softness – warp’d to wrong; | |
Betray’d too early, and beguiled too long; | |
Each feeling pure – as falls the dropping dew | |
665 | Within the grot; like that had harden’d too; |
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass’d, | |
But sunk, and chill’d, and petrified at last. | |
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, | |
If such his heart, so shatter’d it the shock. | |
670 | There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, |
Though dark the shade – it shelter’d – saved till now. | |
The thunder came – that bolt hath blasted both, | |
The Granite’s firmness, and the Lily’s growth: | |
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell | |
675 | Its tale, but shrunk and wither’d where it fell; |
And of its cold protector, blacken round | |
But shiver’d fragments on the barren ground! | |
XXIV | |
’Tis morn – to venture on his lonely hour | |
Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower. | |
680 | He was not there – nor seen along the shore; |
Ere night, alarm’d, their isle is traversed o’er: | |
Another morn – another bids them seek, | |
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak; | |
Mount – grotto – cavern – valley search’d in vain, | |
685 | They find on shore a sea-boat’s broken chain: |
Their hope revives – they follow o’er the main. | |
’Tis idle all – moons roll on moons away, | |
And Conrad comes not – came not since that day: | |
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare | |
690 | Where lives his grief, or perished his despair! |
Long mourn’d his band whom none could mourn beside; | |
And fair the monument they gave his bride: | |
For him they raise not the recording stone – | |
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known; | |
695 | He left a Corsair’s name to other times, |
Link’d with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. |
Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte | |
‘Expende Annibalem: – quot libras in duce summo Invenles!’ J | |
‘The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues, and military talents, were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. | |
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * | |
By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till –’ G | |
I | |
’Tis done - but yesterday a King! | |
And arm’d with Kings to strive – | |
And now thou art a nameless thing: | |
So abject – yet alive! | |
5 | Is this the man of thousand thrones, |
Who strew’d our earth with hostile bones, | |
And can he thus survive? | |
Since he, miscall’d the Morning Star, | |
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. | |
II | |
10 | Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind |
Who bow’d so low the knee? | |
By gazing on thyself grown blind, | |
Thou taught’st the rest to see. | |
With might unquestion’d, - power to save, - | |
15 | Thine only gift hath been the grave |
To those that worshipp’d thee; | |
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess | |
Ambition’s less than littleness! | |
III | |
Thanks for that lesson – it will teach | |
20 | To after-warriors more |
Than high Philosophy can preach, | |
And vainly preach’d before. | |
That spell upon the minds of men | |
Breaks never to unite again, | |
25 | That led them to adore |
Those Pagod things of sabre sway, | |
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. | |
IV | |
The triumph, and the vanity, | |
The rapture of the strife | |
30 | The earthquake voice of Victory, |
To thee the breath of life; | |
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway | |
Which man seem’d made but to obey, | |
Wherewith renown was rife – | |
35 | All quell’d! – Dark Spirit! what must be |
The madness of thy memory! | |
V | |
The Desolator desolate! | |
The Victor overthrown! | |
The Arbiter of others’ fate | |
40 | A Suppliant for his own! |
Is it some yet imperial hope | |
That with such change can calmly cope? | |
Or dread of death alone? | |
To die a prince - or live a slave - | |
45 | Thy choice is most ignobly brave! |
VI | |
He who of old would rend the oak, | |
Dream’d not of the rebound; | |
Chain’d by the trunk he vainly broke – | |
Alone – how look’d he round? | |
50 | Thou in the sternness of thy strength |
An equal deed hast done at length, | |
And darker fate hast found: | |
He fell, the forest prowlers’ prey; | |
But thou must eat thy heart away! | |
VII | |
55 | The Roman, |
Was slaked with blood of Rome, | |
Threw down the dagger - dared depart, | |
In savage grandeur, home. – | |
He dared depart in utter scorn | |
60 | Of men that such a yoke had borne, |
Yet left him such a doom! | |
His only glory was that hour | |
Of self-upheld abandon’d power. | |
VIII | |
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway | |
65 | Had lost its quickening spell, |
Cast crowns for rosaries away, | |
An empire for a cell; | |
A strict accountant of his beads, | |
A subtle disputant on creeds, | |
70 | His dotage trifled well: |
Yet better had he neither known | |
A bigot’s shrine, nor despot’s throne. | |
IX | |
But thou – from thy reluctant hand | |
The thunderbolt is wrung – | |
75 | Too late thou leav’st the high command |
To which thy weakness clung; | |
All Evil Spirit as thou art, | |
It is enough to grieve the heart | |
To see thine own unstrung; | |
80 | To think that God’s fair world hath been |
The footstool of a thing so mean; | |
X | |
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, | |
Who thus can hoard his own! | |
And Monarchs bow’d the trembling limb, | |
85 | And thank’d him for a throne! |
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, | |
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear | |
In humblest guise have shown. | |
Oh! ne’er may tyrant leave behind | |
90 | A brighter name to lure mankind! |
XI | |
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, | |
Nor written thus in vain - | |
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, | |
Or deepen every stain: | |
95 | If thou hadst died as honour dies, |
Some new Napoleon might arise, | |
To shame the world again - | |
But who would soar the solar height, | |
To set in such a starless night? | |
XII | |
100 | Weigh’d in the balance, here dust |
Is vile as vulgar clay; | |
Thy scales, Mortality! are just | |
To all that pass away: | |
But yet methought the living great | |
105 | Some higher sparks should animate, |
To dazzle and dismay: | |
Nor deem’d Contempt could thus make mirth | |
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. | |
XIII | |
And she, proud Austria’s mournful flower, | |
110 | Thy still imperial bride; |
How bears her breast the torturing hour? | |
Still clings she to thy side? | |
Must she too bend, must she too share | |
Thy late repentance, long despair, | |
115 | Thou throneless Homicide? |
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, | |
’Tis worth thy vanish’d diadem! | |
XIV | |
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, | |
And gaze upon the sea; | |
120 | That element may meet thy smile – |
It ne’er was ruled by thee! | |
Or trace with thine all idle hand | |
In loitering mood upon the sand | |
That Earth is now as free! | |
125 | That Corinth’s pedagogue hath now |
Transferr’d his by-word to thy brow. | |
XV | |
Thou Timour! in his captive’s cage | |
What thoughts will there be thine, | |
While brooding in thy prison’d rage? | |
130 | But one – ‘The world |
Unless, like he of Babylon, | |
All sense is with thy sceptre gone, | |
Life will not long confine | |
That spirit pour’d so widely forth – | |
135 | So long obey’d – so little worth! |
XVI | |
Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, | |
Wilt thou withstand the shock? | |
And share with him, the unforgiven, | |
His vulture and his rock! | |
140 | Foredoom’d by God – by man accurst, |
And that last act, though not thy worst, | |
The very Fiend’s arch mock;1 | |
He in his fall preserved his pride, | |
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died! | |
XVII | |
145 | There was a day – there was an hour, |
While earth was Gaul’s – Gaul thine – | |
When that immeasurable power | |
Unsated to resign | |
Had been an act of purer fame | |
150 | Than gathers round Marengo’s name |
And gilded thy decline, | |
Through the long twilight of all time, | |
Despite some passing clouds of crime. | |
XVIII | |
But thou forsooth must be a king, |