BENEATH a mountain's brow, the most remote And inaccessible by shepherds trod, In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, A hermit lived; a melancholy man,
Who was the wonder of our wandering swains. Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,
Did they report him; the cold earth his bed, Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. I went to see him, and my heart was touched With reverence and with pity. Mild he spake ; And, entering on discourse, such stories told, As made me oft revisit his sad cell;
For he had been a soldier in his youth, And fought in famous battles, when the peers Of Europe, by the old Godfredo led Against the usurping infidel, displayed The blesséd cross, and won the Holy Land. Pleased with my admiration and the fire
His speech struck from me, the old man would shake His years away, and act his young encounters.
Then, having showed his wounds, he'd sit him down, And all the live-long day discourse of war. To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf He cut the figures of the marshalled hosts; Described the motions and explained the use Of the deep column and the lengthened line, The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm; For all that Saracen or Christian knew Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.
Why this brave soldier in a desert hid Those qualities that should have graced a camp, At last I also learned. Unhappy man! Returning homewards by Messina's port, Loaded with wealth and honors, bravely won, A rude and boisterous captain of the sea Fastened a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought: The stranger fell; and, with his dying breath, Declared his name and lineage.
The soldier cried-" My brother! oh, my brother!" They exchanged forgiveness.
And happy, in my mind, was he that died; For many deaths has the survivor suffered. In the wild desert, on a rock, he sits,
Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks, And ruminates all day his dreadful fate : At times, alas! not in his perfect mind, Holds dialogues with his loved brother's ghost; And oft, each night, forsakes his sullen couch, To make sad orisons for him he slew.
SPEECH OF CAIUS GRACCHUS.
O ROME, my country! O my mother Rome! Is it to shed thy blood I draw my sword? To fill thy matrons' and thy daughters' eyes With tears, and drain the spirits of thy sons? Should I not rather turn it 'gainst myself, And by the timely sacrifice of one,
Preserve the many? They will not let me do it; They take from me the rule of mine own acts, And make me freedom's slave! What! Is it so? Come, then, the only virtue that is left me,- The fatal virtue of necessity.
Give them stout hearts, ye gods! to enable them To stand the flashing of their tyrants' swords; Deaf to the din of battle let them be;
Senseless to wounds, and without eyes for blood ;— That for this once they may belie themselves,— Make tyranny to cower, and from her yoke Lift prostrate liberty, to fall no more!
78. BELSHAZZAR'S WARNING.
HOUR of an empire's overthrow!
The princes from the feast were gone; The idol flame was burning low ;- "Twas midnight upon Babylon.
That night the feast was wild and high; That night was Sion's gold profaned;
The seal was set to blasphemy;
The last deep cup of wrath was drained. Mid jewelled roof and silken pall,
Belshazzar on his couch was flung; A burst of thunder filled the hall; He heard but 'twas no mortal tongue :
"King of the East! the trumpet calls, That calls thee to a tyrant's grave: A curse is on thy palace walls- A curse is on thy guardian wave: "A surge is in Euphrates' bed,
That never filled its bed before; A surge that, ere the morn be red, Shall load with death its haughty shore. "Behold a tide of Persian steel!
A torrent of the Median car;
Like flame their gory banners wheel: Rise, king, and arm thee for the war!" Belshazzar gazed: the voice was past- The lofty chamber filled with gloom; But echoed on the sudden blast
The rushing of a mighty plume. He listened all again was still; He heard no chariot's iron clang; He heard the fountain's gushing rill, The breeze that through the roses sang.
He slept in sleep wild murmurs came; A visoned splendor fired the sky ; He heard Belshazzar's taunted name; He heard again the Prophet cry:
"Sleep, Sultan! 'tis thy final sleep; Or, wake or sleep, the guilty dies. The wrongs of those who watch and weep, Around thee and thy nation rise."
He started mid the battle's yell,
He saw the Persian rushing on;
He saw the flames around him swell: Thou'rt ashes, King of Babylon!
79. THE DEATH OF NAPOLeon.
WILD was the night; yet a wilder night Hung round the soldier's pillow; In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight Than the fight on the watchful billow.
A few fond mourners were kneeling by, The few that his stern heart cherished; They knew by his glazed and unearthly eye, That life had nearly perished.
They knew by his awful and kingly look, By the order hastily spoken,
That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, And the nations' hosts were broken.
He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, And triumphed the Frenchman's 'eagle';
And the struggling Austrian still fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.
The bearded Russian he scourged again, The Prussian's camp was routed,
And again, on the hills of haughty Spain, His mighty armies shouted.
Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, At the pyramids, at the mountain,
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, And by the Italian fountain.
On the snowy cliffs, where mountain streams Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,
He led again, in his dying dreams, His hosts, the broad earth quelling.
Again Marengo's field was won, And Jena's bloody battle; Again the world was overrun, Made pale at the cannon's rattle.
He died at the close of that darksome day, A day that shall live in story;
In the rocky land they placed his clay, "And left him alone with his glory.'
The Last Days of Herculaneum.
THERE was a man,
A Roman soldier, for some daring deed That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough, But generous, and brave, and kind.
He had a son: it was a rosy boy,
A little faithful copy of his sire
In face and gesture. From infancy the child Had been his father's solace and his care.
Of that first day of darkness and amaze,
He came. The iron door was closed,-for them Never to open more! The day, the night, Dragged slowly by; nor did they know the fate Impending o'er the city. Well they heard The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath, And felt its giddy rocking; and the air Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped The earthquake might pass by; nor would he wake From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell The dangers of their state. On his low couch The fettered soldier sunk, and with deep awe Listened the fearful sounds:—with upturned eye To the great gods he breathed a prayer;-then strove To calm himself, and lose in sleep awhile
His useless terrors. But he could not sleep:-- His body burned with feverish heat;-his chains Clanked loud, although he moved not: deep in earth Groaned unimaginable thunders :-sounds, Fearful and ominous, arose and died,
Like the sad moanings of November's wind, In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled
His blood that burned before; cold clammy sweats Came o'er him:-then anon a fiery thrill
Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk, And shivered as in fear :-now upright leaped, As though he heard the battle trumpet sound, And longed to cope with death.
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