Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his
way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around! of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings, as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation work'd,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein
When first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run;
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,
The young Spring smiled with angel grace ;
Rosy Summer next advancing,
Rush'd into her sire's embrace-
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,
On India's citron-cover'd isles:
More remote and buxom-brown,
The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone !
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side.
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale!
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale !-
Save when adown the ravaged globe
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form :-
Till light's returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume,
And crystal-cover'd shield!
O sire of storms !-whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity-
Archangel! power of desolation!
Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation,
Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then sullen Winter hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ;-
To shuddering want's unmantled bed,
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead;
And gently on the orphan head
Of innocence descend!
But chiefly spare, O king of clouds !
The sailor on his airy shrouds ;
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep!
Milder yet thy snowy breezes
Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
O winds of Winter! list ye there
To many a deep and dying groan;
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
At shrieks and thunders louder than
Alas! even your unhallow'd breath
May spare the victim, fallen low-
But man will ask no truce to death,-
No bounds to human woe.
The Arab Maid's Song.
Fly to the desert! fly with me!
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Our rocks are rough-but smiling there,
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet; nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare-but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs,
As o'er the marble courts of kings!
Then come !-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree;
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,—
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought !—
As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!
So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breath'd and shone;
New-as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome-as if loved for years!
Then fly with me !-if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Come!-if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,—
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found!-
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place ;—
Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!
Flight of O'Connor's Child, and Death of her Lover.
'At bleating of the wild watch-fold
Thus sang my love-"Oh, come with me!
Our bark is on the lake-behold
Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree.
Come far from Castle-Connor's clans -
Come with thy belted forestere,
And I, beside the lake of swans,
Shall hunt for thee the fallow deer;
And build thy hut, and bring thee home
The wild fowl and the honey-comb;
And berries from the wood provide,
And play my clarshech by thy side-
Then come, my love!"-How could I stay?
Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way,
And I pursued by moonless skies,
The light of Connocht Moran's eyes!
And fast and far, before the star
Of day-spring, rush'd we through the glade,
And saw at dawn the lofty bawn
Of Castle-Connor fade.
Sweet was to us the hermitage
Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore;
Like birds all joyous from the cage,
For man's neglect we loved it more!
And well he knew, my huntsman dear,
To search the game with hawk and spear;
While I, his evening food to dress,
Would sing to him in happiness!
But oh, that midnight of despair,
When I was doom'd to rend my hair!
The night, to me of shrieking sorrow!
The night to him-that had no morrow!
'When all was hush'd at even-tide,
I heard the baying of their beagle:
Be hush'd! my Connocht Moran cried,
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle-
Alas! 'twas not the eyrie's sound,
Their bloody bands had track'd us out;
Up-listening starts our couchant hound-
And, hark! again, that nearer shout
Brings faster on the murderers.
Spare-spare him-Brazil-Desmond fierce!
In vain—no voice the adder charms;
Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms;
Another's sword has laid him low-
Another's and another's;
And every hand that dealt the blow-
Ah me! it was a brother's!
Yes, when his moanings died away,
Their iron hands had dug the clay,
And o'er his burial turf they trod,
And I beheld-O God! O God!
His life-blood oozing from the sod !' Campbell.
Heard ye those loud-contending waves,
That shook Cecropia's pillar'd state?
Saw ye the mighty from their graves
Look up and tremble at her fate?
Who shall calm the angry storm?
Who the mighty task perform;
And bid the raging tumult cease?
See, the son of Hermes rise,
With siren tongue, and speaking eyes,
Hush the noise, and sooth to peace!
See the olive branches waving
O'er Ilisus' winding stream,
Their lovely limbs the Naiads laving,
The Muses smiling by, supreme!
See the nymphs and swains advancing,
To harmonious measures dancing:
Grateful Io Pæans rise
To thee, O Power! who can inspire
Soothing words-or words of fire,
And shook thy plumes in Attic skies!
Lo! from the regions of the north,
The reddening storm of battle pours,
Rolls along the trembling earth,
Fastens on the Olynthian towers.
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