The pillar'd cave of Morven's giant king,1 The Yanar,2 and the Geyser's boiling fountain, The deep volcano's inward murmuring, 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! THE DEITY 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, O! that he were reveal'd to me, In all the awful majesty Of heaven's consummate pomp array'd— How would the overwhelming light And how insufferably bright Would the broad glow of glory stream! What tho' this flesh would fade like grass, The fiercest pangs would well repay. 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 Colossus of Rhodes bestrid a harbour, Fingal's powers were certainly far from despicable: A chos air Cromleach druim-ard An d'uisge o Lubhair na fruth. Remarkable for imagination and for versification as the work of a boy of sixteen. I SEE the chariot, where, Throughout the purple air, The forelock'd monarch rides: Arm'd like some antique vehicle for war, Cleaving the clouds of ages that float by, The great, the lowly, and the brave 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! Clear is the track which thou hast past; Strew'd with the wrecks of frail renown, An undistinguishable waste, Invisible to human eyes, Which fain would scan the various shapes which glide In dusky cavalcade, Imperfectly descried, Through that intense, impenetrable shade. With one foot on Cromleach his brow, The other on Crommeal the dark, Fion took up with his large hand The water from Lubhair of streams. See the Dissertations prefixed to Ossian's Poems, 2 Or, perpetual fire. 3 Alias, the Spectre of the Broken. Four grey steeds thy chariot draw; In th' obdurate, tameless jaw Their rusted iron bits they sternly champ; Of their light-bounding, windy feet, 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. Arm'd is he in full mail,1 Bright breast-plate and high crest, Nor is the trenchant falchion wanting: So fiercely does he ride the gale, On Time's dark car, before him, rest The dew-drops of his charger's panting. On, on they go along the boundless skies, Of those vast armed orbs, which roll Thy strength is the flower that shall last but a day, And thy might is the snow in the sun's burning ray. Arm, arm from the east, Babylonia's son ! Arm, arm for the battle- the Lord leads thee on ! With the shield of thy fame, and the power of thy pride, Arm, arm in thy glory- the Lord is thy guide. Thou shalt come like a storm when the moonlight 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! 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 bed! Woe, woe to thee, Memphis! the war-cry is near, And the child shall be toss'd on the murderer's spear; For fiercely he comes in the day of his ire, With wheels like a whirlwind, and chariots of fire! SOFT, shadowy moon-beam! by thy light The swell of distant brook is heard, Come hither! let us thread with care And thro' yon fragrant alley winds. Or on this old bench will we sit, Round which the clust'ring woodbine wreathes; While birds of night around us flit; And thro' each lavish wood-walk breathes, Unto my ravish'd senses, brought From yon thick-woven odorous bowers, The whispering leaves, the gushing stream, Then, to the thickly-crowded mart Then, wealth aloft in state displays Yon church, whose cold grey spire appears Whose form in dreams my spirit sees. OH! Berenice, lorn and lost, This wretched soul with shame is bleed. ing: Oh! Berenice, I am tost By griefs, like wave to wave succeeding. Fall'n Pontus! all her fame is gone, And dark the lustre of her story. Dead is the wreath that round her brow And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go, My love, thy life, thy country shaming, In all the agonies of woe, Mid madd'ning shouts, and standarda flam ing? And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go, Lone, crownless, destitute, and poor, Yet though my spirit, bow'd with ill, Art free for ever from the strife Of slavery's pangs and tearful anguish; For life is death, and death is life, To those whose limbs in fetters languish. 'And said I, that my limbs were old!'- SCOTT. RAISE, raise the song of the hundred shells! Though my hair is grey and my limbs are cold; Yet in my bosom proudly dwells The memory of the days of old; When my voice was high, and my arm was strong, And the foeman before my stroke would bow, And I could have rais'd the sounding song As loudly as I hear ye now. For when I have chanted the bold song of death, Not a page would have stay'd in the hall, Not a lance in the rest, not a sword in the sheath, Not a shield on the dim grey wall. And who might resist the united powers When, all martiall'd in arms on the heavenkissing towers, Stood the chieftains in peerless array? When our enemies sunk from our eyes as the snow Which falls down the stream in the dell, When each word that I spake was the death of a foe, And each note of my harp was his knell? So raise ye the song of the hundred shells; Though my hair is grey and my limbs are cold, Yet in my bosom proudly dwells THE FALL OF JERUSALEM JERUSALEM! Jerusalem! Thou art low thou mighty one, How is the brilliance of thy diadem, How is the lustre of thy throne Rent from thee, and thy sun of fame Of the Roman bird, whose sway How is thy royal seat-whereon Salem! Salem! city of kings, Where once the glory of the Most High Dwelt visibly enshrin'd between the wings Of Cherubims, within whose bright embrace The golden mercy-seat remain'd: Land of Jehovah! view that sacred place Abandon'd and profan'd! Wail! fallen Salem! Wail: Mohammed's votaries pollute thy fane; Thrice hath Sion's crowned rock Towering on his sainted brow, Thrice, with desolating shock, Down to earth hath seen it driv'n Wail, fallen Salem! Wail: Though not one stone above another There was left to tell the tale Of the greatness of thy story, Yet the long lapse of ages cannot smother The blaze of thine abounding glory; Which thro' the mist of rolling years, O'er history's darken'd page appears, Like the morning star, whose gleam Gazeth thro' the waste of night, In his cold surge hath deeply lav'd Oh! who shall e'er forget thy bands The terrors of the desert's barren reign, Or that sublime Theocracy which pav'd Signs on earth and signs on high A trumpet's voice above thee rung, Visions of fiery armies, redly flashing And flaming chariots, fiercely dashing, The temple doors, on brazen hinges crashing, A wondrous radiance streaming round! 'Our blood be on our heads!' ye said: Full bitterly at length 't was paid Arms of adverse legions bound thee, Yet still was heard th' unceasing cry - A sound divine Came from the sainted, secret, inmost shrine: Though now each glorious hope be blighted, Yet an hour shall come, when ye, Though scatter'd like the chaff, shall be Beneath one standard once again united; When your wandering race shall own, Prostrate at the dazzling throne Of your high Almighty Lord, The wonders of his searchless word, Th' unfading splendours of his Son! LAMENTATION OF THE PERUVIANS THE foes of the east have come down on our shore, And the state and the strength of Peru are no more: Oh! curs'd, doubly curs'd, was that desolate hour, When they spread o'er our land in the pride of their power! Lament for the Inca, the son of the Sun; Pizarro! Fizarro! though conquest may wing Her course round thy banners that wanton in air; Yet remorse to thy grief-stricken conscience shall cling, And shriek o'er thy banquets in sounds of despair. It shall tell thee, that he who beholds from his throne The blood thou hast spilt and the deeds thou hast done, Why fann'd ye the fire, and why fed ye the flame? Why sped ye his sails o'er the ocean so blue ? Thy crimes and thy murders to heav'n shall ascend: For vengeance the ghosts of our forefathers call; At thy threshold, Pizarro, in death shalt thou fall! Ay there -even there in the halls of thy pride, With the blood of thine heart shall thy portals be dyed! Lo! dark as the tempests that frown from the north, From the cloud of past time Manco Capac looks forth |