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But softer far,
Is the voice of the Maid of Savoy!
For thy glory is past, and thy splendour is dim, And the cup of thy sorrow is full to the brim; And where is the chief in thy realms to abide, The 'Monarch of Nations,'i the strength of his
pride? Like a thousand dark streams from the moun
tain they throng, With the fife and the horn and the war-beating
gong: The land like an Eden before them is fair, But behind them a wilderness dreary and bare.? The shrieks of the orphan, the lone widow's
wail, The groans of the childless, are loud on the
gale; For the star of thy glory is blasted and wan, And wither'd the flower of thy fame, Hindo
THE MAID OF SAVOY
Down Savoy's hills of stainless white
A thousand currents run,
But brighter far,
In the eye of the Maid of Savoy!
A thousand roebucks leap,
But lighter far,
Of the foot of the Maid of Savoy!
A thousand blossoms flower, 'Neath the odorous shade by the larches made, In their own ambrosial bower:
But sweeter still,
Is the breath of the Maid of Savoy!
'Tis midnight o'er the dim mere's lonely bosom, Dark, dusky, windy midnight: swift are
driven The swelling vapours onward: every blossom
Bathes its bright petals in the tears of heaven. Imperfect, half-seen objects meet the sight,
The other half our fancy must pourtray; A wan, dull, lengthen'd sheet of swimming
light Lies the broad lake: the moon conceals her ray, Sketch'd faintly by a pale and lurid gleam Shot thro' the glimmering clouds: the lovely
planet Is shrouded in obscurity; the scream
Of owl is silenc'd; and the rocks of granite Rise tall and drearily, while damp and dank Hang the thick willows on the reedy bank. Beneath, the gurgling eddies slowly creep,
Blacken'd by foliage; and the glutting wave, That saps eternally the cold grey steep,
Sounds heavily within the hollow cave.
The heath-fowl lifts his head at intervals;
Wet, driving, rainy, come the bursting squalls; All nature wears her dun dead covering. Tempest is gather'd, and the brooding storm Spreads its black mantle o'er the mountain's
form; And, mingled with the rising roar, is swelling, From the far hunter's booth, the blood hound's
yelling: The water-falls in various cadence chiming, Or in one loud unbroken sheet descending, Salute each other thro' the night's dark
womb; The moaning pine-trees to the wild blast
bending, Are pictured faintly thro' the cheqner'd
gloom; The forests, half-way up the mountain climbing, Resound with crash of falling branches;
In Savoy's groves full merrily sing
A thousand songsters gay, When the breath of spring calls them forth on
In the reprint this is marked ' (?)' but it is probably Alfred's. It is the only experiment in Scottish verse in the volume. nante de sa majesté;' 'Le rayonnant monarque
the wing, To sport in the sun's mild ray: '? Such pompous epithets the Oriental writers are accustomed to bestow on their monarchs; of which sufficient specimens may be seen in Sir William Jones's translation of the History of Nadir Shah.
We can scarcely read one page of this work without meeting with such sentences as these: "Le roi de rois; ' 'Les étendards qui subjuguent le monde; ' 'L'âme rayon
"Sa majesté conquérante du monde; ' etc. 2. The land is as the garden of Eden before tbert and behind them a desolate wilderness.' - JOEL.
8 The succeeding lines are a paraphrase of Ossian
THERE are tears o' pity, an' tears o' was,
But where art thou, thou comet of in age,
Thou phenix of a century? Perchance Thou art but of those fables which engage
And hold the minds of men in giddy trance. Yet, be it so, and be it all romance,
The thought of chine existence is so bright With beautiful imaginings — the glance
Upon thy fancied being such delight, That I will deemn thee Truth, so lovely is thy
There are sighs o' pity, an' sighs o'wae,
frae far, There's the smile o' joy in the festive ha'; Yet the smile o' luve is sweeter than a'!
• AND ASK YE WHY THESE SAD
"Te somnia nostra reducunt.'
It is the solemn even-time,
And the holy organ 's pealing: And the vesper chime, oh! the vesper chime !
O'er the clear blue wave is stealing.
Of the monks in chorus singing:
To the gale is its soft note flinging. "T is the sound of the voices sweeping along,
Like the wind thro' a grove of larches: And the vesper song, oh! the vesper song !
Echoes sad thro' the cloister'd arches.
AND ask ye why these sad tears stream ?
Why these wan eyes are dim with weepI had a dream - a lovely dream,
Of her that in the grave is sleeping. I saw her as 't was yesterday,
The bloom upon her cheek still glowing: And round her play'd a golden ray,
And on her brows were gay flowers blowing. With angel-hand she swept a lyre,
A garland red with roses bound it;
And amaranth was woven round it.
In everlasting radiance gleaming; Co-equal with the seraphs bright,
Mid thousand thousand angels beaming. I strove to reach her, wlen, behold,
Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian, And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,
Faded in air a lovely vision ! And I awoke, but oh! to me
That waking hour was doubly weary; And yet I could not envy thee,
Although so blest, and I so dreary.
* Neque ego nunc de vulgari aut de mediocri, quæ tamen ipsa et delectat et prodest, sed de vera et perfecta loquor (anicitia) qualis eorum, qui pauci nominantur, fuit.' — CICERO.
O Thou most holy Friendship! wheresoe'er
Thy dwelling be for in the courts of man But seldom thine all-heavenly voice we hear,
Sweet ning the moments of our narrow span; And seldom thy bright foot-steps do we scan
Hlong the weary waste of life unblest, For faithless is its frail and wayward plan,
And perfidy is man's eternal guest, With dark suspicion linkd and shameless in
"T is thine, when life has reach'd its final goal,
Ere the last sigh that frees the mind be giv'n, To speak sweet solace to the parting soul,
And pave the bitter path that leads to heav'n: 'T is thine, whene'er the heart is rack'd and
riv'n Dy the hot shafts of baleful calumny, When the dark spirit to despair is driv'n,
To teach its lonely grief to lean on thee, And pour within thine ear the tale of misery.
One of the best of Alfred's early efforts. Here, as in “ Persia,' the metrical management of proper names is noteworthy.
* The sublime always dwells on great objects and terrible.'
BURKE. OTELL me not of vales in tenderest green, The poplar's shade, the plantane's graceful
tree; Give me the wild cascade, the rugged scene,
The loud surge bursting o'er the purple sea:
On such sad views my soul delights to pore,
By Teneriffe's peak, or Kilda's giant height, Or dark Loffoden's melancholy shore,
What time grey eve is fading into night; When by that twilight beam I scarce descry The mingled shades of earth and sea and sky. Give me to wander at midnight alone, Through some august cathedral, where, from
high, The cold, clear moon on the mosaic stone
Comes glancing in gay colours gloriously, Through windows rich with gorgeous blazonry,
Gilding the niches dim, where, side by side, Stand antique mitred prelates, whose bones lie Beneath the pavement, where their deeds of
pride Were graven, but long since are worn away By constant feet of ages day by day. Then, as Imagination aids, I hear Wild heavenly voices sounding from the
quoir, And more than mortal music meets mine ear, Whose long, long notes among the tombs ex
pire, With solemn rusting of cherubic wings, Round those vast columns which the roof up
bear; While sad and undistinguishable things
Do flit athwart the moonlit windows there; And my blood curdles at the chilling sound Of lone, unearthly steps, that pace the hallow'd
ground ! I love the starry spangled heav'n, resembling
A canopy with fiery gems o'erspread, When the wide loch with silvery sheen is trem
bling, Far stretch'd beneath the mountain's hoary
head. But most I love that sky, when, dark with
storms, It frowns terrific o'er this wilder'd earth, While the black clouds, in strange and uncouth
forms, Come hurrying onward in their ruinous wrath; And shrouding in their deep and gloomy robe The burning eyes of heav'n and Dian's lucid
Raises his eyes to heaven. Oh! who wonld
sleep What time the rushing of the angry gale Is loud upon the waters ? Hail, all hail ! Tempest and clouds and night and thunder's
rending peal ! All hail, Sublimity! thou lofty one,
For thou dost walk upon the blast, and gird Thy majesty with terrors, and thy throne
Is on the whirlwind, and thy voice is heard In thunders and in shakings: thy delight
Is in the secret wood, the blasted heath,
Is nought with thee; and on thy steps attend Shadows but half-distinguish'd; the thin train
Of hovering spirits round thy pathway bend, With their low tremulous voice and airy tread, What time the tomb above them yawns and
gapes: For thou dost hold communion with the dead
Phantoms and phantasies and grisly shapes; And shades and headless spectres of Saint
Mark, Seen by a lurid light, formless and still and
What joy to view the varied rainbow smile
On Niagara's flood of matchless might, Where all around the melancholy isle 3
The billows sparkle with their hues of light! While, as the restless surges roar and rave, The arrowy stream descends with awful
sound, Wheeling and whirling with each breathless
wave, 4 Immense, sublime, magnificent, profound ! If thou hast seen all this, and conld'st not feel, Then know, thine heart is fram'd of marble or
I love your voice, ye echoing winds, that sweep Thro the wide womb of midnight, when the
veil Of darkness rests upon the mighty deep,
The labouring vessel, and the shatter'd sailSave when the forked bolts of lightning leap
On flashing pinions, and the mariner pale
The hurricane fair earth to darkness changing,
Kentucky's chambers of eternal gloom, 5 The swift pac'd columns of the desert ranging
Th' uneven waste, the violent Simoom, Thy snow-clad peaks, stupendous Gungotree ! Whence springs the hallow'd Jumna's echo
ing tide, Hoar Cotopaxi's cloud-capt majesty,
Enormous Chimborazo's naked pride, The dizzy Cape of winds that cleaves the sky, Whence we look down into eternity,
1 According to Burke, a low tremulous intermitted sound is conducive to the sublime.
2 It is a received opinion, that on St. Mark's Eve all the persons who are to die on the following year make their appearances without their heads in the churches of their respective parishes. See DR. LANGHORNE's Notes to Collins.
3 This island, on both sides of which the waters rush
with astonishing swiftness, is 900 or 800 feet long, and its lower edge is just at the perpendicular edge of the fall.
4 Undis Phlegethon perlustrat ANHELIS.' CLAUDIAN.
$ See Dr. Nahum Ward's account of the great Ken. tucky Cavern, in the Monthly Magazine, October, 1816.
6 In the Ukraine.
The pillar'd cave of Morven's giant king,
The shadowy Colossus of the mountain; 3 Antiparos, where sun-beams never enter;
Loud Stromboli, amid the quaking isles; The terrible Maelstroom, around his centre
Wheeling his circuit of unnumber'd miles: These, these are sights and sounds that freeze
the blood, Yet charm the awe-struck soul which doats on
solitude. Blest be the bard, whose willing feet rejoice
To tread the emerald green of Fancy's vales, Who hears the music of her heavenly voice, And breathes the rapture of her nectar'd
gales ! Blest be the bard, whom golden Fancy loves,
He strays for ever thro' her blooming bowers, Amid the rich profusion of her groves, And wreathes his forehead with her spicy
flowers Of sunny radiance; but how blest is he Who feels the genuine force of high Sublimity!
His visage, as he downward trod,
Shone starlike on the shrinking crowd, With lustre borrow'd from his God:
They could not brook it, and they bow'd. The mere reflection of the blaze
That lighten'd round creation's Lord, Was too puissant for their gaze;
And he that caught it was ador'd. Then how ineffably august,
How passing wond'rous must He be, Whose presence lent to earthly dust
Such permanence of brilliancy! Thron'd in sequester'd sanctity,
And with transcendant glories crown'd; With all his works beneath his eye,
And suns and systems burning round, How shall I hymn him? How aspire
His holy Name with song to blend, And bid my rash and feeble lyre
To such an awless flight ascend ?
TIME: AN ODE
Signed ‘A. T. or C. T.' in the reprint, but Lord Tennyson believes, as I do, that Charles wrote it.
Immutable - immortal - infinite !' - MILTON. WHERE is the wonderful abode,
The holy, secret, searchless shrine, Where dwells the immaterial God,
The all-pervading and benign? O! that he were reveal'd to me,
Fully and palpably display'd In all the awful majesty
Of heaven's consummate pomp array'd How would the overwhelming light
Of his tremendous presence beam ! And how insufferably bright
Would the broad glow of glory stream! What tho' this flesh would fade like grass,
Before th' intensity of day?
The fiercest pangs would well repay.
Remarkable for imagination and for versifi-
The forelock'd monarch rides:
Now dark, now dun, now richly bright,
Bow down before the rushing force
Of thine unconquerable course; Thy wheels are noiseless as the grave, Yet fleet as Heaven's red bolt they hurry on,
They pass above us, and are gone
Strew'd with the wrecks of frail renown,
The pathway that before thee lies,
Invisible to human eyes, Which fain would scan the various shapes
In dusky cavalcade, Imperfectly descried, Through that intense, impenetrable
When Moses on the mountain's brow
Had met th' Eternal face to face, While anxious Israel stood below,
Wond'ring and trembling at its base;
1 Fingal's Cave in the Island of Staffa. If the Colosfus of Rhodes bestrid a harbour, Fingal's powers were certainly far from despicable: –
A chos air Cromleach druim-ard
With one foot on Cromleach his brow,
The water from Lubhair of streams.
2 Or, perpetual fire.
Four grey steeds thy chariot draw;
obdurate, tameless jaw
Of their light-bounding, windy feet,
Upon that cloudy pavement beat. Four wings have each, which, far outspread,
Receive the many blasts of heav'n, As with unwearied speed,
Throughout the long extent of ether driven, Onward they rush for ever and for aye:
Thy voice, thou mighty Charioteer!
Always sounding in their ear, Throughout the gloom of night and heat of day. Fast behind thee follows Death,
Thro’ the ranks of wan and weeping, That yield their miserable breath,
On with his pallid courser proudly sweeping.
Nor is the trenchant falchion wanting :
The dew-drops of his charger's panting.
All human grandeur fades away Before their flashing, fiery, hollow eyes;
Beneath the terrible control
Of those vast armed orbs, which roll
Oblivion on the creatures of a day. Those splendid monuments alone he spares,
Which, to her deathless votaries, Bright Fame, with glowing hand, uprears Amid the waste of countless years.
Arm, arm from the east, Babylonia's son !
thy pride, Arm, arm in thy glory – the Lord is thy guide. Thou shalt come like a storm when the moon
light is dim, And the lake's gloomy bosom is full to the
brim; Thou shalt come like the flash in the darkness
of night, When the wolves of the forest shall howl for
affright. Woe, woe to thee, Tanis ! 8 thy babes shall be
thrown By the barbarous hands on the cold marble
stone: Woe, woe to thee, Nile ! for thy stream shall
be red With the blood that shall gush o'er thy billowy
Live ye!' to these he crieth; live!
The noblest star of heaven hath shone; Live, when the ponderous pyramids of earth
Are crumbling in oblivion ! Live, when, wrapt in sullen shade, The golden hosts of heaven shall fade; Live, when yon gorgeous sun on high Shall veil the sparkling of his eye! Live, when imperial Time and Death himself
Perhaps incorrectly assigned to Alfred. HARK! how the gale, in mournful notes and
stern, Sighs thro' yon grove of aged oaks, that wave (While down these solitary walks I turn Their mingled branches o'er yon lonely
gravel Poor soul ! the dawning of thy life was dim;
Frown'd the dark clouds upon thy natal day; Soon rose thy cup of sorrow to the brim,
And hope itself but shed a doubtful ray, That hope had fled, and all within was gloom; That hope had Aed — thy woe to phrenzy
GOD'S DENUNCIATIONS AGAINST PHARAOH-HIOPHRA, OR APRIES
Thou beast of the flood, who hast said in thy
soul, I have made me a stream that for ever shall
1 I am indebted for the idea of Death's Armour to that famous Chorus in Caractacus beginning with
'Hark! heard ye not that footstep dread ?' ? 'Pliny's reproach to the Egyptians, for their vain an foonbo pride with regard to the inundations of the Nile, points out one of their most distinguishing char
acteristics, and recalls to my mind a fine passage of Ezekiel, where God thus speaks to Pharaoh, one of their kings: “Behold, I am against thee, Pharaoh king of Egypt, the great dragon that lieth in the midst of his rivers, that hath said, MY RIVER IS MINE Owx, AND I HAVE MADE IT POR MYSELF."'- Rollin, vol. i. p. 216.
3 The Scriptural appellations are • Zoan' and Noph.'