And she would sit beneath the very tree | |
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee; | |
And in that posture where she saw him fall, | |
615 | His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall; |
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, | |
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, | |
And fold, and press it gently to the ground, | |
As if she stanch’d anew some phantom’s wound. | |
620 | Herself would question, and for him reply; |
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly | |
From some imagined spectre in pursuit; | |
Then seat her down upon some linden’s root, | |
And hide her visage with her meagre hand, | |
625 | Or trace strange characters along the sand – |
This could not last – she lies by him she loved; | |
Her tale untold – her truth too dearly proved. |
The Destruction of Sennacherib | |
I | |
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, | |
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; | |
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, | |
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. | |
II | |
5 | Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, |
That host with their banners at sunset were seen: | |
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, | |
That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown. | |
III | |
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, | |
10 | And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d; |
And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly and chill, | |
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! | |
IV | |
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, | |
But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride: | |
15 | And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, |
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. | |
V | |
And there lay the rider distorted and pale, | |
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; | |
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, | |
20 | The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. |
VI | |
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, | |
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; | |
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, | |
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! |
Napoleon’s Farewell (From the French) | |
I | |
Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory | |
Arose and o’ershadow’d the earth with her name – | |
She abandons me now — but the page of her story, | |
The brightest or blackest, is fill’d with my fame. | |
5 | I have warr’d with a world which vanquish’d me only |
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; | |
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, | |
The last single Captive to millions in war. | |
II | |
Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown’d me, | |
10 | I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, – |
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, | |
Decay’d in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. | |
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted | |
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won – | |
15 | Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, |
Had still soar’d with eyes fix’d on victory’s sun! | |
III | |
Farewell to thee, France! – but when Liberty rallies | |
Once more in thy regions, remember me then, – | |
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys; | |
20 | Though wither’d, thy tear will unfold it again – |
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, | |
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice – | |
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us, | |
Then |
From the French (‘Must thou go, my glorious Chief’) | |
I | |
Must thou go, my glorious Chief, | |
Sever’d from thy faithful few? | |
Who can tell thy warrior’s grief, | |
Maddening o’er that long adieu? | |
5 | Woman’s love, and friendship’s zeal, |
Dear as both have been to me – | |
What are they to all I feel, | |
With a soldier’s faith for thee? | |
II | |
Idol of the soldier’s soul! | |
10 | First in fight, but mightiest now: |
Many could a world control; | |
Thee alone no doom can bow. | |
By thy side for years I dared | |
Death; and envied those who fell, | |
15 | When their dying shout was heard, |
Blessing him they served so well. | |
III | |
Would that I were cold with those, | |
Since this hour I live to see; | |
When the doubts of coward foes | |
20 | Scarce dare trust a man with thee, |
Dreading each should set thee free! | |
Oh! although in dungeons pent, | |
All their chains were light to me, | |
Gazing on thy soul unbent. | |
IV | |
25 | Would the sycophants of him |
Now so deaf to duty’s prayer, | |
Were his borrow’d glories dim, | |
In his native darkness share? | |
Were that world this hour his own, | |
30 | All thou calmly dost resign, |
Could he purchase with that throne | |
Hearts like those which still are thine? | |
V | |
My chief, my king, my friend, adieu! | |
Never did I droop before; | |
35 | Never to my sovereign sue, |
As his foes I now implore: | |
All I ask is to divide | |
Every peril he must brave; | |
Sharing by the hero’s side | |
40 | His fall, his exile, and his grave. |
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH | |
To | |
January 22 | |
ADVERTISEMENT | |
‘The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di Romania, the most considerable place in all that country, | |
In the year since Jesus died for men, | |
Eighteen hundred years and ten, | |
We were a gallant company, | |
Riding o’er land, and sailing o’er sea. | |
5 | Oh! but we went merrily! |
We forded the river, and clomb the high hill, | |
Never our steeds for a day stood still; | |
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, | |
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed; | |
10 | Whether we couch’d in our rough capote, |
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, | |
Or stretch’d on the beach, or our saddles spread | |
As a pillow beneath the resting head, | |
Fresh we woke upon the morrow: | |
15 | All our thoughts and words had scope, |
We had health, and we had hope, | |
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. | |
We were of all tongues and creeds; — | |
Some were those who counted beads, | |
20 | Some of mosque, and some of church, |
And some, or I mis-say, of neither; | |
Yet through the wide world might ye search, | |
Nor find a mother crew nor blither. | |
But some are dead, and some are gone, | |
25 | And some are scatter’d and alone, |
And some are rebels on the hills | |
That look along Epirus’ valleys, | |
Where freedom still at moments rallies, | |
And pays in blood oppression’s ills; | |
30 | And some are in a far countree, |
And some all restlessly at home; | |
But never more, oh! never, we | |
Shall meet to revel and to roam. | |
But those hardy days flew cheerily, | |
35 | And when they now fall drearily, |
My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, | |
And bear my spirit back again | |
Over the earth, and through the air, | |
A wild bird and a wanderer. | |
40 | ’Tis this that ever wakes my strain, |
And oft, too oft, implores again | |
The few who may endure my lay, | |
To follow me so far away. | |
Stranger – wilt thou follow now, | |
45 | And sit with me on Acro-Corinth’s brow? |
1 | |
Many a vanish’d year and age, | |
And tempest’s breath, and battle’s rage, | |
Have swept o’er Corinth; yet she stands, | |
A fortress form’d to Freedom’s hands. | |
5 | The whirlwind’s wrath, the earthquake’s shock, |
Have left untouch’d her hoary rock, | |
The keystone of a land, which still, | |
Though fall’n, looks proudly on that hill, | |
The landmark to the double tide | |
10 | That purpling rolls on either side, |
As if their waters chafed to meet, | |
Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. | |
But could the blood before her shed | |
Since first Timoleon’s brother bled, | |
15 | Or baffled Persia’s despot fled, |
Arise from out the earth which drank | |
The stream of slaughter as it sank, | |
That sanguine ocean would o’erflow | |
Her isthmus idly spread below: | |
20 Or could the bones of all the slain, | |
Who perish’d there, be piled again, | |
That rival pyramid would rise | |
More mountain-like, through those clear skies, | |
Than yon tower-capp’d Acropolis, | |
25 | Which seems the very clouds to kiss. |
II | |
On dun Cithæron’s ridge appears | |
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears; | |
And downward to the Isthmian plain, | |
From shore to shore of either main, | |
30 | The tent is pitch’d, the crescent shines |
Along the Moslem’s leaguering lines; | |
And the dusk Spahi’s bands advance | |
Beneath each bearded pacha’s glance; | |
And far and wide as eye can reach | |
35 | The turban’d cohorts throng the beach; |
And there the Arab’s camel kneels, | |
And there his steed the Tartar wheels; | |
The Turcoman hath left his herd, | |
The sabre round his loins to gird; | |
40 | And there the volleying thunders pour |
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. | |
The trench is dug, the cannon’s breath | |
Wings the far hissing globe of death; | |
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, | |
45 | Which crumbles with the ponderous ball; |
And from that wall the foe replies, | |
O’er dusty plain and smoky skies, | |
With fires that answer fast and well | |
The summons of the Infidel. | |
III | |
50 | But near and nearest to the wall |
Of those who wish and work its fall, | |
With deeper skill in war’s black art, | |
Than Othman’s sons, and high of heart | |
As any chief that ever stood | |
55 | Triumphant in the fields of blood; |
From post to post, and deed to deed, | |
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, | |
Where sallying ranks the trench assail, | |
And make the foremost Moslem quail; | |
60 | Or where the battery, guarded well, |
Remains as yet impregnable, | |
Alighting cheerly to inspire | |
The soldier slackening in his fire; | |
The first and freshest of the host | |
65 | Which Stamboul’s sultan there can boast, |
To guide the follower o’er the field, | |
To point the tube, the lance to wield, | |
Or whirl around the bickering blade; — | |
Was Alp, the Adrian renegrade! | |
IV | |
70 | From Venice – once a race of worth |
His gentle sires – he drew his birth; | |
But late an exile from her shore, | |
Against his countrymen he bore | |
The arms they taught to bear; and now | |
75 | The turban girt his shaven brow. |
Through many a change had Corinth pass’d | |
With Greece to Venice’ rule at last; | |
And here, before her walls, with those | |
To Greece and Venice equal foes, | |
80 | He stood a foe, with all the zeal |
Which young and fiery converts feel, | |
Within whose heated bosom throngs | |
The memory of a thousand wrongs. | |
To him had Venice ceased to be | |
85 | Her ancient civic boast – ‘the Free;’ |
And in the palace of St Mark | |
Unnamed accusers in the dark | |
Within the ‘Lion’s mouth’ had placed | |
A charge against him uneffaced: | |
90 | He fled in time, and saved his life, |
To waste his future years in strife, | |
That taught his land how great her loss | |
In him who triumph’d o’er the Cross, | |
‘Gainst which he rear’d the Crescent high, | |
95 | And battled to avenge or die. |
V | |
Coumourgi | |
Adorn’d the triumph of Eugene, | |
When on Carlowitz’ bloody plain, | |
The last and mightiest of the slain, | |
100 | He sank, regretting not to die, |
But cursed the Christian’s victory – | |
Coumourgi – can his glory cease, | |
That latest conqueror of Greece, | |
Till Christian hands to Greece restore | |
105 | The freedom Venice gave of yore? |
A hundred years have roll’d away |