The battle's tide was poured;
Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear,
Vanished the mountain sword.
As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,
Receives her roaring linn,
As the dark caverns of the deep
Suck the wild whirlpool in,
So did the deep and darksome pass
Devour the battle's mingled mass:
None linger now upon the plain,
Save those who ne'er shall fight again!
LXX. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
STOP! for thy tread is on an empire's dust;
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchered below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields, king-making Victory?
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men:
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again; And all went merry as a marriage-bell.
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !
Did ye not hear it? No; 't was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stōny street:
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet!
But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before.
Arm! arm! it is, it is the cannon's opening roar !
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear:
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well,
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star;
While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! they come! they
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;
Last eve, in beauty's circle, proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife;
The morn, the marshaling in arms
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it; which, when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.
LXXI. - TUBAL CAIN.
OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might
In the days when the earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright
The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear:
And he sang, "Hurra for my handiwork!
Hurra for the spear and sword!
Hurra for the hand that wields them well,
For he shall be king and lord!"
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire;
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade,
As the crown of his heart's desire.
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,
And spoils of the forest tree;
And they sang, "Hurra for Tubal Cain,
Who has given us strength anew!
Hurra for the smith, and hurra for the fire,
And hurra for the metal true! "
But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun;
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain,
For the evil he had done.
He saw that men, with
Made war upon their kind,
That the land was fed with the blood they shed,
And their lust for carnage blind;
And he said, "Alas! that ever I made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
spear and sword for man, whose joy
Is to slay his fellow-man."
And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smouldered low;
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright, courageous eye,
And he bared his strong arm for the work,
While the quick flames mounted high;
And he said, "Hurra for my handiwork!"
And the fire-sparks lit the air;
"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made!" And he fashioned the first plowshare!
And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands;
Hung the sword in the hall, and the spear on the wall,
And plowed the willing lands;
And sang, "Hurra for Tubal Cain!
Our staunch good friend is he;
And for the plowshare and the plow
To him our prize shall be!
But while oppression lifts its hand,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plow,
We'll not forget the sword!"
LXXII.—THE BEAUTIFUL.
WALK with the Beautiful and with the Grand;
Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter;
Sorrow may lead thee weeping by the hand,
But give not all thy bosom thoughts to her.
Walk with the Beautiful!
I hear thee say, "The Beautiful! what is it?"
O, thou art darkly ignorant! Be sure
'Tis no long, weary road, its form to visit,
For thou canst make it smile beside thy door.
Then love the Beautiful!
Ay, love it; 't is a sister that will bless,
And teach thee patience when thy heart is lonely;
The angels love it, for they wear its dress,
And thou art made a little lower only:
Then love the Beautiful'
Some boast its presence in a Grecian face;
Some in a favorite warbler of the skies;
But be not fooled! Whate'er thy eye may trace,
Seeking the Beautiful, it will arise :
Then seek it every where !
Thy bosom is its mint; the workmen are
Thy thoughts, and they must coin for thee. Believing The Beautiful exists in every star,
Thou mak'st it so; and art thyself deceiving,
Dost thou see Beauty in the violet's cup?
I'll teach thee miracles. Walk on this heath,
And say to the neglected flowers, "Look up,
And be ye beautiful!" If thou hast faith.
They will obey thy word.
One thing I warn thee: bow no knee to gold;
Less innocent it makes the guileless tongue;
It turns the feelings prematurely old;
And they who keep their best affections young
Best love the Beautiful!
CHILDE HAROLD'S DEPARTURE.
ADIEU! adieu! My native shore fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, and shrieks the wild
Yon sun that sets upon the sea we follow in his flight;
Farewell a while to him and thee: my native land, good-night!
A few short hours, and he will rise to give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies, but not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall, its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, my dog howls at the gate.
Come hither, hither, my little page! why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly more merrily along.
"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high! I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone, a mother whom I love,
And have no friend save these alone, but thee and One above.
"My father blessed me fervently, yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh till I come back again.”.
Enough, enough, my little lad! such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had, mine own would not be dry.
Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman! why dost thou look so
pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman, or shiver at the gale? "Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak: But, thinking on an absent wife will blanch a faithful cheek.
* The 7 in this word is unsounded, and the a has the sound of a in fall.
|