SLOW Struggling through the mist, that reek'd to heaven,
Day dawn'd on Chalons' plain. Faintly it show'd Indistinct horror, and the ghastly form
Of havoc lingering o'er its bloody work.
Oh for the tongue that told how once the fiend Over immortal Athens from his wing Scatter'd disease and death! and, worse than death, The living curse of sunder'd charities, Whereby the fount of feeling and love's pulse Was stay'd within through dread, and, when most lack'd,
The hospitable mansion sternly closed Against a parent's prayer, while corses foul, On the barr'd threshold's edge lay uninhumed, Exhaling plague! Oh, for the voice of him, Who drew the curtain of Apocalypse, To man declaring things for man too high, That I may speak the horrors, which broke slow Upon the sight at dawn! The ample field, Which, but short hours before was redolent With herbs and healthful odours, now uptorn By thousand hoofs, batter'd beneath the strength Of wheels and horse and man, a barren mass Of dark confusion seem'd; a trampled waste Without the blush of verdure, but with gore Distain'd, and steep'd in the cold dews of death. Thick strewn, and countless, as those winged tribes Which clamoring blacken all the grassy mead In sickly autumn, when the wither'd leaves Drift on the moaning gale, lay swords and pikes, Bucklers, and broken cuirasses, and casques, Shower'd by the pelting battle, when it rush'd With such hoarse noise as does the foaming surge Upon some rocky ledge, where Æolus
Bids foul winds blow. But not of arms alone Rent fragments, and the broken orb of shields Embossed with gold, and gorgeous housings lay Cumbering that fearful waste. The mind shrinks back
From the thick scatter'd carnage, the dread heaps That late were living energy and youth, Hope emulous, and lofty daring; strength, Which raised again from that corrupting sod, Thro' Ardenne's desert unto utmost Rhine Might have spread culture; thousands whose blithe voice
Might yet have caroll'd to the breath of morn, Or joy'd the banquet, or with gifted hand Waked the ecstatic lyre, adorning still With rich diversity of active power Cottage or palace, the marmorean hall's Proud masonry, with Roman wealth o'erlaid, Or of Sarmatian hut the pastoral hearth, Abode of love, where fond remembrance now Looks sadly over hills and native dales For forms beloved in vain, which far away, Spurn'd by the grazed ox, shall heap the sod Of Chalons' glebe with undistinguish'd clay. Alas!-If erst, on that unhallow'd eve When Ramah quaked with dread, the deep lament Of Rachel mourning for her babes appall'd Utmost Judea, and the holy banks
Of Jordan unto Syria's frontier bounds, What ear, save Thine to whom all plaints arise, Might have abided the commingling wail Of matrons widow'd, and of maids that day Bereft of bridal hopes! like those lorn men Hard by the rock of Rimmon, when the Lord Smote Benjamin in all his fenced towns, Virgin, and wife, and infant with the sword Utterly destroying; and one oath restrain'd Each willing fair in Israel; yet brides
For these still bloom'd in Gilead, and, what time The vintage glow'd, in Shiloh danced with song Ripe for connubial joys. But whence for these Shall ravaged Europe light the nuptial torch, Whose hopes have wither'd as the herbs, that bloom'd
Odorous yestermorn on Chalons' plain! There foes on foes, friends lay with icy cheek Pressing their maim'd companions. On that field The eye might trace all war's vicissitudes Impress'd in fatal characters; the rush Headlong of flight, and thundering swift pursuit, Rescue and rally, and the struggling front Of hard contention. Strewn on every side Lay dead and dying, like the scatter'd seed Cast by the husbandman, with other thoughts Of unstain'd harvest; chariots overthrown, Shields cast behind, and wheels, and sever'd limbs, Rider and steed, and all the merciless shower Of arrows barb'd, strong shafts, and feather'd darts Wing'd with dismay. As when of Alpine snows The secret fount is open'd, and dread sprites, That dwell in those crystalline solitudes [moan, Have loosed the avalanche whose deep-thundering Predicting ruin, on his couch death-doom'd The peasant hears; waters on waters rush Uptearing all impediment, woods, rocks, Ice rifted from the deep cærulean glens, Herds striving with the stream, and bleating flocks, The dwellers of the dale, with all of life That made the cottage blithesome; but ere long The floods o'erpass; the ravaged valley lies Tranquil and mute in ruin. So confused In awful stillness lay the battle's wreck. Here heaps of slain, as by an eddy cast, And hands, which, stiff, still clench'd the ruddy Show'd rallied strength, and life sold dearly. There Equal and mingled havoc, where the tide Doubtful had paused whether to ebb or flow. Some prone were cast, some headlong, some supine; Others yet strove with death. The sallow cheek Of the slain Avar press'd the mangled limbs Of yellow-hair'd Sicambrian, whose blue eyes Still swum in agony; Gelonic steed Lay panting on the cicatrized form
Of his grim lord, whose painted brow convulsed Seem'd a ferocious mockery. There, mix'd The Getic archer with the savage Hun, And Dacian lancers lay, and sturdy Goths Pierced by Sarmatian pike. There, once his pride The Sueve's long-flowing hair with gore besprent, And Alans stout, in Roman tunic clad. Some of apparel stripp'd by coward bands That vulture-like upon the skirts of war Ever hang merciless; their naked forms
In death yet beauteous, though the eburnean limbs Blood had defiled. There some, whom thirst all night
Had parch'd, too feeble from that fellowship To drag their fever'd heads, aroused at dawn From fearful dreaming to new hope and life, Die rifled by the hands whose help they crave. Others lie maim'd and torn, too strong to die, Imploring death. Oh, for some friendly aid To staunch their burning wounds and cool the lip Refresh'd with water from an unstain'd spring! But that foul troop of plunderers unrestrain'd Ply their abhorred trade, of groan or prayer Heedless, destroying whom war's wrath had spared. Some, phrensied, crawl unto the brook, which late Pellucid roll'd, now choked with slain, and swell'd With the heart's blood of thousands; gore they quaff For water, to allay the fatal thirst [God! Which only death may quench. And this, great This is thy field of glory and of joy To man, the noblest of created forms, In thy pure image moulded! This the meed For which exalted natures toil and strive, Placed in such high preeminence, to be Thine own similitude, in glory next Thine incorporeal ministers! Long while Upon that loathly scene gazed Attila Touch'd by no thought of sufferings.
WHAT art thou, O relentless visitant, Who with an earlier or later call, Dost summon every spirit that abides In this our fleshly tabernacle! Death! The end of worldly sorrowing and joy, That breakest short the fantasies of youth, The proud man's glory, and the lingering chain Of hopeless destitution! The dark gate And entrance into that untrodden realm, Where we must all hereafter pass! Art thou An evil or a boon? that some shrink back With shuddering horror from the dreaded range Of thine unmeasured empire, others plunge Unbidden, goaded by the sense of ill, Or weariness of being, into the abyss! And should we call those blest who journey on Upon this motley theatre, through life Successful, unto the allotted term
Of threescore years and ten, even so strong, That they exceed it? or those, who are brought down Before their prime, and, like the winged tribes, Ephemeral, children of the vernal beam, Just flutter round the sweets of life and die ?- An awful term thou art; and still must be, To all who journey to that bourne, from whence Return is none, and from whose distant shore No rumor has come back of good or ill, Save to the faithful, and even they but view Obscurely things unknown and unconceived, And judge not even, by what sense the bliss, Which they imagine, shall hereafter be Enjoy'd or apprehended. And shall man
Unbidden rush on that mysterious change, Which, whether he believe or mock the creed Of those who trust, awaits him, and must bring Or good, or evil, or annihilate
The sense of being, and involve him quite In darkness upon which no dawn shall break !— Fearful and dreaded must thy bidding be To such as have no light within, vouchsafed From the Most High, no reason for their hope; But go from this firm world, into the void Where no material body may reside,
By fleshly cares polluted and unmeet For spiritual joy; and ne'er have known, Or knowing, have behind them cast the love Of their Redeemer, who thine awful bonds, Grim Potentate, has broken, and made smooth The deathbed of the just through faith in Him. How oft, at midnight, have I fix'd my gaze Upon the blue unclouded firmament, With thousand spheres illumined, each perchance The powerful centre of revolving worlds! Until, by strange excitement stirr'd, the mind Has long'd for dissolution, so it might bring Knowledge, for which the spirit is athirst, Open the darkling stores of hidden time, And show the marvel of eternal things, Which, in the bosom of immensity,
Wheel round the God of Nature. Vain desire! Illusive aspirations! daring hope!
Worm that I am, who told me I should know
More than is needful, or hereafter dive
Into the counsel of the God of worlds? Or ever, in the cycle unconceived Of wonderous eternity, arrive Beyond the narrow sphere, by Him assign'd To be my dwelling wheresoc'er? Enough To work in trembling my salvation here, Waiting thy summons, stern, mysterious Power, Who to thy silent realm hast call'd away All those whom nature twined around my breast In my fond infancy, and left me here
Denuded of their love! Where are ye gone, And shall we wake from the long sleep of death, To know each other, conscious of the ties That link'd our souls together, and draw down The secret dew-drop on my cheek, whene'er I turn unto the past? or will the change That comes to all, renew the alter'd spirit To other thoughts, making the strife or love Of short mortality a shadow past,
Equal illusion? Father, whose strong mind Was my support, whose kindness as the spring Which never tarries! Mother, of all forms That smiled upon my budding thoughts most dear! Brothers! and thou, mine only sister! gone To the still grave, making the memory Of all my earliest time, a thing wiped out, Save from the glowing spot, which lives as fresh In my heart's core, as when we last in joy Were gather'd round the blithe paternal board! Where are ye? Must your kindred spirits sleep For many a thousand years, till by the trump Roused to new being? Will affections then Burn inwardly, or all our loves gone by Seem but a speck upon the roll of time,
Unworthy our regard ?-This is too hard For mortals to unravel, nor has He Vouchsafed a clue to man, who bade us trust To Him our weakness, and we shall wake up After his likeness, and be satisfied.
As he who sails aloof
Upon the perilous Atlantic, vex'd
By baffling gales, what time his gallant bark Or on the summit of some dark blue wave Storm-beaten rides, or plunges into the chasm From that tremendous altitude, and straight Lies in his trough becalm'd, as if the grave Had swallow'd her; nathless undaunted sets His fix'd regard upon the starry vault, And notes the hour, and frequent calculates Distance and bearings, and with skill corrects The errors of his course. So darkling steer'd Aëtius, through the shoals and fearful blasts Of his tempestuous time, but never found That anchorage, secure from every change Of fitful gales, that haven, which the just Alone inherit; for the sons of earth, Who, vex'd with vain disquietude, pursue Ambition's fatuous light, through miry pools That yawn for their destruction, stray foredoom'd Amid delusive shadows to their end.
That certain hope, which shineth evermore A beacon to the righteous, over them Its peaceful radiance never shall diffuse; And bitterness shall be the bread they chew, While striving to devour the portion snatch'd By strong injustice from their fellow men, A baneful meal; and their satiety Shall be a curse, more fatal than the void Of meager famine, an unwholesome weight, That haply shall bring dreams beyond the grave To the charged soul, and phantoms of the things Which have been on this earth, and which shall be Hereafter, when the trumpet wakes the dead.
FAIREST and loveliest of created things, By our great Author in the image form'd Of his celestial glory, and design'd To be man's solace! Undefiled by sin How much dost thou exceed all earthly shapes Of beautiful, to charm the wistful eye, Bland to the touch, or precious in the use! His treasure of delight, while the fresh prime Adorns his forehead with the joy of youth, His comfort in the winter of the soul! Chaste woman! thou art e'en a brighter gem To him, who wears thee, than e'er shone display'd Upon the monarch's diadem; a charm More sweet to lull all sorrow, than the tint Of spring's young verdure in the dewy morn, Or music's mellow tones, which floating come
Over the water like a fairy dream! Thou hangest, as a wreath upon his neck, More fragrant than the rose, in thy pure garb Of blushing gentleness. Thou art a joy More sprightly than the lark in vernal suns Pouring his throat to heaven, or forest call By blithesome Dryads blown; a faithful stay In all the world's mischances; a helpmeet For man in sickness, and decay, and death. Thou art more precious than an only child In weary age begotten, a clear spring Amid the desert, an unhoped-for land To baffled mariners, or dawn of day To who has press'd all night a fever'd couch. Oh, wherefore, best desired and most beloved Of all heaven's works, oh, wherefore wert thou made
To be our curse as well as blessing! lured From thy first shape of innocence to become A thing abased by guilt, and more deform'd As thine original glory was more bright!
READER, whoe'er hast travell'd to the goal Through this long chant unwearied, if my verse, Tuned to no trivial strain, hast lent thee aught Of pleasure or of profit, o'er the work Wrought by the chaste artificer of song Bend kindly, yielding such small meed of praise Earn'd by high musing, as may send his name Not ill-esteem'd upon the wings of Time Unto his children's children, when the sod Shall lie upon the hand that gave it life, Calling the soul's unborn imaginings From thought's deep fountain; like the glowing Of Eros and his brother, who uprose From their wet cradle at the wizard's voice, This mournful, o'er his neck the jetty locks With hyacinthine ringlets clustering, That blythe and golden as the god of day.
Perchance I shall not walk with thee again Along the Muse's haunt, and we shall both Be number'd with the countless things that lie O'ershadow'd by oblivion; hearts that beat High in the noontide of ambitious hopes, And forms of loveliest symmetry, that once Delighted the beholder, by the hand, Which deals just measure unto all that tread This changeful world, o'ertaken in their dream Of summer joy. Calm reason throws a cloud O'er the enchantment of aspiring thoughts Which whisper of a life beyond the tomb Upon the lips of men, and tells how vain The shadow of such glory, nothing worth To him who hath his dwelling with the worm. But that Almighty will, which placed man here To labour in his calling, hath set deep Within his bosom an undying hope, An aspiration unto nobler ends
Than he hath compass'd yet; a stirring thirst For praise beyond the term that nature's law Has granted to his brief mortality,
This, ever of the gloomy monitor Regardless, bids him peril much, to win The unsubstantial fame, which unto him Shall be as if not being; a sweet strain Of soul-enrapturing music to the deaf, A scene of beauty and of light to eyes That lie in darkness, and by slumber seal'd Without the sense of vision. Strange, forsooth, Appear the workings of the mind of man, Which goad him to his loss. The promised boon Of that stupendous glory, which shall be Hereafter, and survive the wreck of worlds Unto the end of Time, wants substance now To wrestle with his sense of present good; That which is lighter than a transient gleam Of sunshine or the shadow of a shade Reflected from a mirror, and, if gain'd, Can never be by any sense of his Enjoy'd or apprehended, the vain wish To float upon the memory of men After his term of being oft becomes A master passion, and for that one aim He barters all, that his Creator gave Of joy or solace in the vale of life, And that inheritance of perfect bliss Which might be his for ever. Then happy they Who in the airy building of a name, Have travell'd through the guiltless ways of peace Innocuous, and held the mind's calm eye Fix'd on a better star than those vague fires, Which, fatuous, tole man to the abyss. Time was, Nor will return, when poesy might rear A more perennial monument than brass, Towering above the age-worn edifice, Where loath'd corruption saith unto the worm, "Thou art my sister." The famed capitol No longer sees the silent virgin climb Its marble steps, nor does the pomp profane Of sacrificial pontiffs crowd its ways; Yet still the chaplet blooms, wherewith the muse Inwreathed the forehead of Venusium's bard Fragrant and fresh, while ages fling their dust Upon the crumbling domes, with which he claim'd Coeval glory. But the boast that told Of sepulchres by magic verse uppiled, Which neither storms nor all consuming Time Should bring to nothingness, would perish now Even in the utterance. I have yet beheld But half an age, yet in that petty space Such giant forms of havoc and of change Have glided o'er the earth, that the mazed thought Dwells little on the past, but gazing forth, Like the Ebudan seer, with ravishment Strains after what shall be. The ear is cloy'd Unto satiety with honied strains That daily from the fount of Helicon Flow murmuring; and that which is to-day
Inshrined upon the lip of praise, shall be To-morrow a tale told, a shadow pass'd Into those regions where oblivion throws Over the bright creations of the mind
A darkness as of death. Scared learning flies An age, which bubbling with unnumber'd tongues In quest of some new wonder hurries on, And hath no retrospect. Enough for me, That this my tuneful labour, short howe'er Its term of glory, hath my solace been Through many a wintry hour, when icy chains Bound the froze champaign; a sweet anodyne To inward cares, lulling the tremulous heart That throbs with high aspirings, and would fain Live unreproach'd upon the rolls of fame, Mindful of its Creator, who requires From each with usury the gifts He gave, And stirs by inborn thirst of good report Man to his noblest uses. To have walk'd No servile follower, nor vainly trick'd With meretricious gauds of modern song, Beneath Aovian umbrage never sere, Where Melesigenes and Maro sang, Where British Milton gave his country's lyre A voice from ancient days, hath been to me A charm illusive, a refreshing toil Year after year. My little bark, o'er which Long fashioning thy symmetry I hung, Now launch'd upon the ocean wide of Time, Whose winds are evil tongues, and passions roused Amidst the warring multitude its storms, Sore shall I miss thee! like the child, first sent From the safe home, where fond parental cares Watch'd o'er his growing energies. Go forth Unto thy destinies, and fare unharm'd Adown the current, which may waft thee soon To that Lethean pool, where earthly toils Sink unregarded in forgetfulness!
There is for man, a glory of this world Well worth the labour of the blessed, won By arduous deeds of righteousness, that bring Solace, or wisdom, or the deathless boon Of holy freedom to his fellow men, And praise to the Almighty. Such a wreath Encircled late the patriotic brows
Of him, who, greater than the kings of earth, To young Atlantis in an upright cause Gave strength and liberty, and laid the stone Whereon shall rise, if so Jehovah will, An empire mightier than the vast domain Sway'd once by vicious Cæsars.
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