Obrazy na stronie

And the quick spirit of the universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of night was opend wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveald
A marvel and a secret-Be it so.

My dream was past ; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality--the one
To end in madness—both in misery.


What could her grief bel-she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be ?-she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was return'd.-I saw him stand
Before an altar- with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The star-light of his boyhood ;-

;-as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude ; and then-
As in that hour-a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, -and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeld around him; he could see
Not that wbich was, nor that which should have been
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall,
And the remember d chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the suushine and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny came back,
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time?

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love;-oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul; her inind
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms, impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!

A change came o'er the spirit of
The wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass'd round
With hatred and contention; pain was mix'd
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,'
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains : with the stars

On Venice ! Venice! when thy marble walls

Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

A loud lament along the sweeping, sea!

If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do ?-any thing but weep: And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers—as the slime, The dull green ooze of the receding deep, Is with the dashing of the spring-lide foam, That drives the sailor slipless to his home, Are they to those that were; and thus they creep, Crouching and crab-like through their sappiog streets. Oh! agony-that centuries should reap No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears; And every inonument the stranger meets, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; And even the Lion all subdued appears, And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, With dull and daily dissonance, repeats The echo of thy tyrani's voice aloog The soft waves, once all musical to song, That heaved beneath the moon-light with the throng Of gondolas-and to the busy huin Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds Were but the overbeating of the heart, And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood Of sweet sensations battling with the blood. But these are better than the gloomy errors, The weeds of nations in their last decay, When vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, And mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; And hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lighting half an bour ere death, When faintness, the last mortal birth of pain, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning Of the cold staggering race which death is wioning, Steals veio by vein and pulse by pulse away; Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay, To him appears renewal of bis breath, And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ;And then he talks of life, and how again He feels his spirits soaring-albeit weak, And of the fresher air, which he would seek; And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, That his thin linger feels not what it clasps,

my dream.

1 Mithridates of Pontus.

men, who

And so the film comes o'er him--and the dizzy Were of the softer order-born of love,
Chamber swims round and round—and shadows busy She drank no blood, nor falten'd on the dead,
At which he vainly catches, tlit and gleam,

But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread ;
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, For these restored the cross, that from above
And all is ice and blackness,--and the earth

Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant
That which it was the moment ere our birth.

Flew between earth and the unholy crescent,
Which, if it waned and dwindled, carth may thank

The city it has clothed in chains, which clank
There is no hope for nations! Search the page

Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe

The name of freedom to her glorious struggles; Of many thousand years—the daily scene,

Yet she but shares with them a common woe, The flow and ebb of each recurring age,

And call'd the « kingdom» of a conquering foe, The everlasting to be which hath been,

But knows what all-and, most of all, we know-
Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean

With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles !
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear
Our strength away in wrestling with the air ;

For 't is our nature strikes us down : the beasts

The name of commonwealth is past and gone Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Are of as high an order, they must go

Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigos to own Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter.

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; Ye

pour your blood for kings as water, What have they given your children in return?

If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone A heritage of servitude and woes,

His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows.

For tyranny of late is cunning grown, What? do no yet the red-hot ploughshares burn,

And in its own good season tramples down O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal,

The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, And deem this proof of loyalty the real;

Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean kissing the land that guides you to your scars,

Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion

Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, and
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ?
All that your sires have left you, all that time

Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand,
Bequeaths of free, and history of sublime,

And proud distinction from each other land, Spring from a different theme !-Ye see and read,

Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed!

As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Save the few spirits, who despite of all,

Full of the magic of exploded scienceAnd worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd

Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, By the down-thundering of the prison-wall,

Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd,

Above the far Auantic!-She has taught Gushing from freedom's fountains-when the crowd,

Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud,

| Thc floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, And trample on each other to obtain

May strike to those whose red right hands have bought The cup which brings oblivion of a chain

Rights cheaply earo'd with blood. Still, still, for ever Heavy and sore, -in whiclı long yoked they ploughid

Petter, though each man's life-blood were a river, The sand,-or if there sprung the yellow grain,

That it should flow, and overflow, than creep T was not for them, their necks were too much bowd, Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain :

Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, Yes! the few spirits—who, despite of deeds

And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Which they abhor, confound not with the cause

Three paces, and then faltering : better be

Where the extinguishi a Spartans still are free,
Those momentary starts from nature's laws,

In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ,
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth

Than stagnate in our marsh,-or o'er the deep
With all her seasons to repair the blight

Fly, and one current to the ocean add,

One spirit to the souls our fathers bad,
With a few summers, and again put forth

One freeman more, America, to thee!
Cities and generations-fair, when free-
For, tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by,
Thus, when thou vicw'st this page alone,

May mine attract thy pensive eye!

Glory and empire! once upon these towers

With freedom-god-like triad! how ye sate!
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours

When Venice was an envy, might abate,

But did not quench, her spirit-in her fate
All were enwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate,
Although they humbled — with the kingly few
The many felt, for from all days and climes
She was the voyager's worship; -even hier crimes

And when by thee that name is read,

Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.

September 14th, 1809.







SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following

purport. [The effoct of the original ballad (which existed both in Spaeisb

und Arabic) was such, that it was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada.)

The Moorish king rides up and down
Through Granada's royal town;
From Elvira's gates to those
Of Bivarambla on he goes.

Woe is me, Albama!
Letters to the monarch tell
How Alhama's city fell ;
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger be slew.


Woe is me,

PASEABASE el Rey moro
Por la ciudad de Granada,
Desde la puerta de Elvira
Hasta la de Bivarambla.

Ay de mi, Alhama!
Cartas le fueron venidas
Que Alhama cra ganada.
Las cartas echó en el fuego,
Y al mensagero matara.

Ay de mí, Alhama ! Descavalga de una mula, Y en un caballo cavalga. Por el Zacatin arriba Subido se había al Alhambra.

Ay de mí, Alhama! Como en el Alhambra estuvo, Al mismo punto mandaba Que se toquen las trompetas Con añasiles de plata.

Ay de mí, Alhama! Y que atambores de guerra Apriesa toquen alarma ; Por que lo oigan sus Moros, Los de la Vega y Granada.

Ay de mí, Alhama!

Los Moros


el son oyeron, Que al sangriento Marte llama, Uno á uno, y

dos á dos, Un gran escuadron formaban.

Ay de mí, Alhama! Alli habló un Moro viejo; De esta manera hablaba : « ¿Para qué nos llamas, Rey? ¿Para qué es esta llamada ?»

Ay de mi, Alhama! « Habeis de saber, amigos, Una nueva desdichada : Que cristianos, con braveza, Ya nos han tomado Alhama.»

Ay de mí, Allama!
Alli babló un viejo Alfaqui,
De barba crecida y cana :-
« Bien se te emplea, buen Rey;
Buen Rey, bien se te empleaba.

Ay de mi, Alhama !
« Mataste los Bencerrages,
Que eran la flor de Granada ;
Cogiste los tornadizos
De Córdova la nombrada.

Ay de mí, Alhama !

He quits his mule and mounts his horse,
And through the street directs his course;
Through the street of Zacatia
To the Alhambra spurring in.

Woe is me, Alhama!
When the Alhambra walls he gaio d,
On the moment he ordain'd
That the trumpet straight should sound
With the silver clariou round.

Woe is me, Alhama !
And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,
That the Moors of town and plain
Might answer to the martial strain.

Woe is me, Albama!
Then the Moors, by this aware
That bloody Mars recalld them there,
One by one, and two by two,
To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama !
Out then spake an aged Moor
In these words the king before,
« Wherefore call on us, oh king ?
What may mean this gathering ?>>

Woe is me, Albama!
« Friends! ye have, alas ! to know
Of a most disastrous blow,
That the Christians, stern and bold,
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold.»

Woe is me, Alhama!
Out then spake old Alfaqui,
With his beard so white to see,
« Good king, thou art justly served,
Good king, this thou hast deserved.

Woe is me, Alhama !
By thee were slain, in evil hour,
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ;
And strangers were received by thee
Of Cordova the chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama!

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Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte

Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo;
Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte,

L'una e l'altra veggendo, ambo chiedo,
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte

A le fumanti tedc d' Imeneo :
La lua, Francesco, in sugellate porte

Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa

Irremeabil soglia, ove s'asconde

La sua tenera udir voce pictosa.
Io verso un fiume d'amarissim' onda,

Corro a quel marmo in cui la figlia or posa,
Ballo c ribalto, ma nessuu risponde.

Of two fair virgins, modest though admired,

Heaven made us happy, and now, wretched sires;

leavea for a nobler doom their worth desires,
Aud gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired

Becomes extinguislil, soon-too soou expires :
Rut thine, within the closing grate retired,

Eternal captive, lo her God aspires :
But thou at least from out the jcalous door,

Which sluis between your never-meeting eyes,

Mayst hear hier sweet and pious voice once more : I to the marble, where my daughter lies,

Rusli,--the swoln flood of bitterness I pour,
And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.

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