No More Learning

Grateful we bow thy gloomy tow'rs before;
For the old King of France[1] hath found in thee
That melancholy hospitality
Which in their royal fortune's evil day,
Stuarts and Bourbons to each other pay.

_Fraser's Magazine. _

[Footnote 1: King Charles X. ]





THE HUMBLE HOME.

_("L'eglise est vaste et haute. ")_

[IV. , June 29, 1839. ]


The Church[1] is vast; its towering pride, its steeples loom on high;
The bristling stones with leaf and flower are sculptured wondrously;
The portal glows resplendent with its "rose,"
And 'neath the vault immense at evening swarm
Figures of angel, saint, or demon's form,
As oft a fearful world our dreams disclose.
But not the huge Cathedral's height, nor yet its vault sublime,
Nor porch, nor glass, nor streaks of light, nor shadows deep with time;
Nor massy towers, that fascinate mine eyes;
No, 'tis that spot--the mind's tranquillity--
Chamber wherefrom the song mounts cheerily,
Placed like a joyful nest well nigh the skies.

Yea! glorious is the Church, I ween, but Meekness dwelleth here;
Less do I love the lofty oak than mossy nest it bear;
More dear is meadow breath than stormy wind:
And when my mind for meditation's meant,
The seaweed is preferred to the shore's extent,--
The swallow to the main it leaves behind.

_Author of "Critical Essays. "_

[Footnote 1: The Cathedral Notre Dame of Paris, which is the scene of the
author's romance, "Notre Dame. "]





THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

_("O dix-huitieme siecle! ")_

[IV. vi]


O Eighteenth Century! by Heaven chastised!
Godless thou livedst, by God thy doom was fixed.
Thou in one ruin sword and sceptre mixed,
Then outraged love, and pity's claim despised.
Thy life a banquet--but its board a scaffold at the close,
Where far from Christ's beatic reign, Satanic deeds arose!
Thy writers, like thyself, by good men scorned--
Yet, from thy crimes, renown has decked thy name,
As the smoke emplumes the furnace flame,
A revolution's deeds have thine adorned!

_Author of "Critical Essays. "_





STILL BE A CHILD.

_("O vous que votre age defende")_

[IX. , February, 1840. ]


In youthful spirits wild,
Smile, for all beams on thee;
Sport, sing, be still the child,
The flower, the honey-bee.

Bring not the future near,
For Joy too soon declines--
What is man's mission here?
Toil, where no sunlight shines!

Our lot is hard, we know;
From eyes so gayly beaming,
Whence rays of beauty flow,
Salt tears most oft are streaming.

Free from emotions past,
All joy and hope possessing,
With mind in pureness cast,
Sweet ignorance confessing.

Plant, safe from winds and showers,
Heart with soft visions glowing,
In childhood's happy hours
A mother's rapture showing.

Loved by each anxious friend,
No carking care within--
When summer gambols end,
My winter sports begin.

Sweet poesy from heaven
Around thy form is placed,
A mother's beauty given,
By father's thought is graced!

Seize, then, each blissful second,
Live, for joy _sinks in night_,
And those whose tale is reckoned,
Have had their days of light.

Then, oh! before we part,
The poet's blessing take,
Ere bleeds that aged heart,
Or child the woman make.

_Dublin University Magazine_.





THE POOL AND THE SOUL.

_("Comme dans les etangs. ")_

[X. , May, 1839. ]


As in some stagnant pool by forest-side,
In human souls two things are oft descried;
The sky,--which tints the surface of the pool
With all its rays, and all its shadows cool;
The basin next,--where gloomy, dark and deep,
Through slime and mud black reptiles vaguely creep.

R. F. HODGSON





YE MARINERS WHO SPREAD YOUR SAILS.

_("Matelots, vous deploirez les voiles. ")_

[XVI. , May 5, 1839. ]


Ye mariners! ye mariners! each sail to the breeze unfurled,
In joy or sorrow still pursue your course around the world;
And when the stars next sunset shine, ye anxiously will gaze
Upon the shore, a friend or foe, as the windy quarter lays.

Ye envious souls, with spiteful tooth, the statue's base will bite;
Ye birds will sing, ye bending boughs with verdure glad the sight;
The ivy root in the stone entwined, will cause old gates to fall;
The church-bell sound to work or rest the villagers will call.

Ye glorious oaks will still increase in solitude profound,
Where the far west in distance lies as evening veils around;
Ye willows, to the earth your arms in mournful trail will bend,
And back again your mirror'd forms the water's surface send.

Ye nests will oscillate beneath the youthful progeny;
Embraced in furrows of the earth the germing grain will lie;
Ye lightning-torches still your streams will cast into the air,
Which like a troubled spirit's course float wildly here and there.

Ye thunder-peals will God proclaim, as doth the ocean wave;
Ye violets will nourish still the flower that April gave;
Upon your ambient tides will be man's sternest shadow cast;
Your waters ever will roll on when man himself is past.

All things that are, or being have, or those that mutely lie,
Have each its course to follow out, or object to descry;
Contributing its little share to that stupendous whole,
Where with man's teeming race combined creation's wonders roll.

The poet, too, will contemplate th' Almighty Father's love,
Who to our restless minds, with light and darkness from above,
Hath given the heavens that glorious urn of tranquil majesty,
Whence in unceasing stores we draw calm and serenity.

_Author of "Critical Essays. "_





ON A FLEMISH WINDOW-PANE.

_("J'aime le carillon dans tes cites antiques. ")_

[XVIII. , August, 1837. ]


Within thy cities of the olden time
Dearly I love to list the ringing chime,
Thou faithful guardian of domestic worth,
Noble old Flanders! where the rigid North
A flush of rich meridian glow doth feel,
Caught from reflected suns of bright Castile.
The chime, the clinking chime! To Fancy's eye--
Prompt her affections to personify--
It is the fresh and frolic hour, arrayed
In guise of Andalusian dancing maid,
Appealing by a crevice fine and rare,
As of a door oped in "th' incorporal air. "
She comes! o'er drowsy roofs, inert and dull,
Shaking her lap, of silv'ry music full,
Rousing without remorse the drones abed,
Tripping like joyous bird with tiniest tread,
Quiv'ring like dart that trembles in the targe,
By a frail crystal stair, whose viewless marge
Bears her slight footfall, tim'rous half, yet free,
In innocent extravagance of glee
The graceful elf alights from out the spheres,
While the quick spirit--thing of eyes and ears--
As now she goes, now comes, mounts, and anon
Descends, those delicate degrees upon,
Hears her melodious spirit from step to step run on.

_Fraser's Magazine_





THE PRECEPTOR.

_("Homme chauve et noir. ")_

[XIX. , May, 1839. ]


A gruesome man, bald, clad in black,
Who kept us youthful drudges in the track,
Thinking it good for them to leave home care,
And for a while a harsher yoke to bear;
Surrender all the careless ease of home,
And be forbid from schoolyard bounds to roam;
For this with blandest smiles he softly asks
That they with him will prosecute their tasks;
Receives them in his solemn chilly lair,
The rigid lot of discipline to share.
At dingy desks they toil by day; at night
To gloomy chambers go uncheered by light,
Where pillars rudely grayed by rusty nail
Of heavy hours reveal the weary tale;
Where spiteful ushers grin, all pleased to make
Long scribbled lines the price of each mistake.
By four unpitying walls environed there
The homesick students pace the pavements bare.

E. E. FREWER





GASTIBELZA.

_("Gastibelza, l'homme a la carabine. ")_

[XXII. , March, 1837. ]


Gastibelza, with gun the measure beating,
Would often sing:
"Has one o' ye with sweet Sabine been meeting,
As, gay, ye bring
Your songs and steps which, by the music,
Are reconciled--
Oh! this chill wind across the mountain rushing
Will drive me wild!

"You stare as though you hardly knew my lady--
Sabine's her name!
Her dam inhabits yonder cavern shady,
A witch of shame,
Who shrieks o' nights upon the Haunted Tower,
With horrors piled--
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"Sing on and leap--enjoying all the favors
Good heaven sends;
She, too, was young--her lips had peachy savors
With honey blends;
Give to that hag--not always old--a penny,
Though crime-defiled--
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"The queen beside her looked a wench uncomely,
When, near to-night,
She proudly stalked a-past the maids so homely,
In bodice tight
And collar old as reign of wicked Julian,
By fiend beguiled--
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"The king himself proclaimed her peerless beauty
Before the court,
And held it were to win a kiss his duty
To give a fort,
Or, more, to sign away all bright Dorado,
Tho' gold-plate tiled--
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"Love her? at least, I know I am most lonely
Without her nigh;
I'm but a hound to follow her, and only
At her feet die.
I'd gayly spend of toilsome years a dozen--
A felon styled--
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"One summer day when long--so long? I'd missed her,
She came anew,
To play i' the fount alone but for her sister,
And bared to view
The finest, rosiest, most tempting ankle,
Like that of child--
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"When I beheld her, I--a lowly shepherd--
Grew in my mind
Till I was Caesar--she that crowned leopard
He crouched behind,
No Roman stern, but in her silken leashes
A captive mild--
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"Yet dance and sing, tho' night be thickly falling;--
In selfsame time
Poor Sabine heard in ecstasy the calling,
In winning rhyme,
Of Saldane's earl so noble, ay, and wealthy,
Name e'er reviled--
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"(Let me upon this bench be shortly resting,
So weary, I! )
That noble bore her smiling, unresisting,
By yonder high
And ragged road that snakes towards the summit
Where crags are piled--
Oh! this chill wind, etc.

"I saw her pass beside my lofty station--
A glance--'twas all!
And yet I loathe my daily honest ration,
The air's turned gall!
My soul's in chase, my body chafes to wander--
My dagger's filed--
Oh! this chill wind may change, and o'er the mountain
May drive me wild! "

HENRY L. WILLIAMS.





GUITAR SONG.

_("Comment, disaient-ils. ")_

[XXIII. , July 18, 1838. ]


How shall we flee sorrow--flee sorrow? said he.
How, how! How shall we flee sorrow--flee sorrow? said he.
How--how--how? answered she.

How shall we see pleasure--see pleasure? said he.
How, how! How shall we see pleasure--see pleasure? said he.
Dream--dream--dream! answered she.

How shall we be happy--be happy? said he.
How, how! How shall we be happy--be happy? said he.
Love--love--love! whispered she.

EVELYN JERROLD





COME WHEN I SLEEP.

_("Oh, quand je dors. ")_

[XXVII. ]


Oh! when I sleep, come near my resting-place,
As Laura came to bless her poet's heart,
And let thy breath in passing touch my face--
At once a space
My lips will part.

And on my brow where too long weighed supreme
A vision--haply spent now--black as night,
Let thy look as a star arise and beam--
At once my dream
Will seem of light.

Then press my lips, where plays a flame of bliss--
A pure and holy love-light--and forsake
The angel for the woman in a kiss--
At once, I wis,
My soul will wake!

WM. W. TOMLINSON.





EARLY LOVE REVISITED.

_("O douleur! j'ai voulu savoir. ")_

[XXXIV. i. , October, 183-. ]


I have wished in the grief of my heart to know
If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear,
And to see what this beautiful valley could show
Of all that was once to my soul most dear.
In how short a span doth all Nature change,
How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene--
And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range,
The links that bound our hearts to the scene.

Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste;
The fir is felled that our names once bore;
Our rows of roses, by urchins' haste,
Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er.
The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride,
She so gayly drank, from the wood descending;
In her fairy hand was transformed the tide,
And it turned to pearls through her fingers wending

The wild, rugged path is paved with spars,
Where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced,
When so small were the prints that the surface mars,
That they seemed _to smile_ ere by mine effaced.
The bank on the side of the road, day by day,
Where of old she awaited my loved approach,
Is now become the traveller's way
To avoid the track of the thundering coach.

Here the forest contracts, there the mead extends,
Of all that was ours, there is little left--
Like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds,
Of all souvenirs is the place bereft.
Do we live no more--is our hour then gone?
Will it give back naught to our hungry cry?
The breeze answers my call with a mocking tone,
The house that was mine makes no reply.

True! others shall pass, as we have passed,
As we have come, so others shall meet,
And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste,
Shall others continue, but never complete.
For none upon earth can achieve his scheme,
The best as the worst are futile here:
We awake at the selfsame point cf the dream--
All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.

Yes! others shall come in the bloom of the heart,
To enjoy in this pure and happy retreat,
All that nature to timid love can impart
Of solemn repose and communion sweet.
In _our_ fields, in _our_ paths, shall strangers stray,
In _thy_ wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost,
And other fair forms in the stream shall play
Which of old thy delicate feet have crossed.

_Author of "Critical Essays. "_





SWEET MEMORY OF LOVE.

_("Toutes les passions s'eloignent avec l'age. ")_

[XXXIV. ii. , October, 183-. ]


As life wanes on, the passions slow depart,
One with his grinning mask, one with his steel;
Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art,
Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill.
But naught can Love's all charming power efface,
That light, our misty tracks suspended o'er,
In joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace,
The young may curse thee, but the old adore.

But when the weight of years bow down the head,
And man feels all his energies decline,
His projects gone, himself tomb'd with the dead,
Where virtues lie, nor more illusions shine,
When all our lofty thoughts dispersed and o'er,
We count within our hearts so near congealed,
Each grief that's past, each dream, exhausted ore!
As counting dead upon the battle-field.

As one who walks by the lamp's flickering blaze,
Far from the hum of men, the joys of earth--
Our mind arrives at last by tortuous ways,
At that drear gulf where but despair has birth.
E'en there, amid the darkness of that night,
When all seems closing round in empty air,
Is seen through thickening gloom one trembling light!
'Tis Love's sweet memory that lingers there!

_Author of "Critical Essays. "_





THE MARBLE FAUN.

_("Il semblait grelotter. ")_

[XXXVI. , December, 1837. ]


He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen.
'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass
Of leafless branches, with a blackened back
And a green foot--an isolated Faun
In old deserted park, who, bending forward,
Half-merged himself in the entangled boughs,
Half in his marble settings. He was there,
Pensive, and bound to earth; and, as all things
Devoid of movement, he was there--forgotten.

Trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts--
Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird,
And, like himself, grown old in that same place.
Through the dark network of their undergrowth,
Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown.
Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night
Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist.
This--nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood.

Poor, helpless marble, how I've pitied it!
Less often man--the harder of the two.

So, then, without a word that might offend
His ear deformed--for well the marble hears
The voice of thought--I said to him: "You hail
From the gay amorous age. O Faun, what saw you
When you were happy? Were you of the Court?

"Speak to me, comely Faun, as you would speak
To tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass.
Have you, O Greek, O mocker of old days,
Have you not sometimes with that oblique eye
Winked at the Farnese Hercules? --Alone,
Have you, O Faun, considerately turned
From side to side when counsel-seekers came,
And now advised as shepherd, now as satyr? --
Have you sometimes, upon this very bench,
Seen, at mid-day, Vincent de Paul instilling
Grace into Gondi? --Have you ever thrown
That searching glance on Louis with Fontange,
On Anne with Buckingham; and did they not
Start, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forth
From corner of the wood? --Was your advice
As to the thyrsis or the ivy asked,
When, in grand ballet of fantastic form,
God Phoebus, or God Pan, and all his court,
Turned the fair head of the proud Montespan,
Calling her Amaryllis? --La Fontaine,
Flying the courtiers' ears of stone, came he,
Tears on his eyelids, to reveal to you
The sorrows of his nymphs of Vaux? --What said
Boileau to you--to you--O lettered Faun,
Who once with Virgil, in the Eclogue, held
That charming dialogue? --Say, have you seen
Young beauties sporting on the sward? --Have you
Been honored with a sight of Moliere
In dreamy mood? --Has he perchance, at eve,
When here the thinker homeward went, has he,
Who--seeing souls all naked--could not fear
Your nudity, in his inquiring mind,
Confronted you with Man? "

Under the thickly-tangled branches, thus
Did I speak to him; he no answer gave.

I shook my head, and moved myself away;
Then, from the copses, and from secret caves
Hid in the wood, methought a ghostly voice
Came forth and woke an echo in my souls
As in the hollow of an amphora.

"Imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say,
"What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken Fauns
In peace beneath their trees! Dost thou not know,
Poet, that ever it is impious deemed,
In desert spots where drowsy shades repose--
Though love itself might prompt thee--to shake down
The moss that hangs from ruined centuries,
And, with the vain noise of throe ill-timed words,
To mar the recollections of the dead? "

Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist
I hurried, dreaming of the vanished days,
And still behind me--hieroglyph obscure
Of antique alphabet--the lonely Faun
Held to his laughter, through the falling night.

I went my way; but yet--in saddened spirit
Pondering on all that had my vision crossed,
Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time--
Through all, at distance, would my fancy see,
In the woods, statues; shadows in the past!

WILLIAM YOUNG



A LOVE FOR WINGED THINGS.

[XXXVII. , April 12, 1840. ]


My love flowed e'er for things with wings.
When boy I sought for forest fowl,
And caged them in rude rushes' mesh,
And fed them with my breakfast roll;
So that, though fragile were the door,
They rarely fled, and even then
Would flutter back at faintest call!

Man-grown, I charm for men.





BABY'S SEASIDE GRAVE.

_("Vieux lierre, frais gazon. ")_

[XXXVIII. , 1840. ]


Brown ivy old, green herbage new;
Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle;
An ancient chapel where a crew,
Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle.
A far-off forest's darkling frown,
Which makes the prudent start and tremble,
Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down,
And clouds in demon hordes assemble.

Land birds which twit the mews that scream
Round walls where lolls the languid lizard;
Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream
Past caves fit for an ocean wizard.
Alow, aloft, no lull--all life,
But far aside its whirls are keeping,
As wishfully to let its strife
Spare still the mother vainly weeping
O'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping.






LES CHATIMENTS. --1853.





INDIGNATION!

_("Toi qu'aimais Juvenal. ")_

[Nox (PRELUDE) ix. , Jersey, November, 1852. ]


Thou who loved Juvenal, and filed
His style so sharp to scar imperial brows,
And lent the lustre lightening
The gloom in Dante's murky verse that flows--
Muse Indignation! haste, and help
My building up before this roseate realm,
And its so fruitless victories,
Whence transient shame Right's prophets overwhelm,
So many pillories, deserved!
That eyes to come will pry without avail,
Upon the wood impenetrant,
And spy no glimmer of its tarnished tale.





IMPERIAL REVELS.

_("Courtisans! attables dans le splendide orgie. ")_

[Bk. I. x. , Jersey, December, 1852. ]


Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread--
The board that groans with shame and plate,
Still fawning to the sham-crowned head
That hopes front brazen turneth fate!
Drink till the comer last is full,
And never hear in revels' lull,
Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet,
Whilst I gnaw at the crust
Of Exile in the dust--
But _Honor_ makes it sweet!

Ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane,
Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief,
In blazing _cafes_ spend the gain,
But draw the blind, lest at _his_ thief
Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance
And interrupts with steel the dance!
But let him toilsomely tramp by,
As I myself afar
Follow no gilded car
In ways of _Honesty_.

Ye troopers who shot mothers down,
And marshals whose brave cannonade
Broke infant arms and split the stone
Where slumbered age and guileless maid--
Though blood is in the cup you fill,
Pretend it "rosy" wine, and still
Hail Cannon "King! " and Steel the "Queen! "
But I prefer to sup
From Philip Sidney's cup--
True soldier's draught serene.

Oh, workmen, seen by me sublime,
When from the tyrant wrenched ye peace,
Can you be dazed by tinselled crime,
And spy no wolf beneath the fleece?
Build palaces where Fortunes feast,
And bear your loads like well-trained beast,
Though once such masters you made flee!
But then, like me, you ate
Food of a blessed _fete_--
The bread of _Liberty_!

H. L. W.





POOR LITTLE CHILDREN.

_("La femelle! elle est morte. ")_

[Bk. I. xiii. , Jersey, February, 1853. ]


Mother birdie stiff and cold,
Puss has hushed the other's singing;
Winds go whistling o'er the wold,--
Empty nest in sport a-flinging.
Poor little birdies!

Faithless shepherd strayed afar,
Playful dog the gadflies catching;
Wolves bound boldly o'er the bar,
Not a friend the fold is watching--
Poor little lambkins!

Father into prison fell,
Mother begging through the parish;
Baby's cot they, too, will sell,--
Who will now feed, clothe and cherish?
Poor little children!





APOSTROPHE TO NATURE.

_("O Soleil! ")_

[Bk. II. iv. , Anniversary of the Coup d'Etat, 1852. ]


O Sun! thou countenance divine!
Wild flowers of the glen,
Caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine
Has pierced not, far from men;
Ye sacred hills and antique rocks,
Ye oaks that worsted time,
Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks
Hurl up in storms sublime;
And sky above, unruflfed blue,
Chaste rills that alway ran
From stainless source a course still true,
What think ye of this man?





NAPOLEON "THE LITTLE. "

_("Ah! tu finiras bien par hurler! ")_

[Bk. III. ii. , Jersey, August, 1852. ]


How well I knew this stealthy wolf would howl,
When in the eagle talons ta'en in air!
Aglow, I snatched thee from thy prey--thou fowl--
I held thee, abject conqueror, just where
All see the stigma of a fitting name
As deeply red as deeply black thy shame!
And though thy matchless impudence may frame
Some mask of seeming courage--spite thy sneer,
And thou assurest sloth and skunk: "It does not smart! "
Thou feel'st it burning, in and in,--and fear
None will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart!





FACT OR FABLE?

(BISMARCK AND NAPOLEON III. )

_("Un jour, sentant un royal appetit. ")_

[Bk. III. iii. , Jersey, September, 1852. ]


One fasting day, itched by his appetite,
A monkey took a fallen tiger's hide,
And, where the wearer had been savage, tried
To overpass his model. Scratch and bite
Gave place, however, to mere gnash of teeth and screams,
But, as he prowled, he made his hearers fly
With crying often: "See the Terror of your dreams! "
Till, for too long, none ventured thither nigh.
Left undisturbed to snatch, and clog his brambled den,
With sleepers' bones and plumes of daunted doves,
And other spoil of beasts as timid as the men,
Who shrank when he mock-roared, from glens and groves--
He begged his fellows view the crannies crammed with pelf
Sordid and tawdry, stained and tinselled things,
As ample proof he was the Royal Tiger's self!
Year in, year out, thus still he purrs and sings
Till tramps a butcher by--he risks his head--
In darts the hand and crushes out the yell,
And plucks the hide--as from a nut the shell--
He holds him nude, and sneers: "An ape you dread! "

H. L. W.





A LAMENT.

_("Sentiers ou l'herbe se balance. ")_

[Bk. III. xi. , July, 1853. ]


O paths whereon wild grasses wave!
O valleys! hillsides! forests hoar!
Why are ye silent as the grave?
For One, who came, and comes no more!

Why is thy window closed of late?
And why thy garden in its sear?
O house! where doth thy master wait?
I only know he is not here.

Good dog! thou watchest; yet no hand
Will feed thee. In the house is none.
Whom weepest thou? child! My father. And
O wife! whom weepest thou? The Gone.

Where is he gone? Into the dark. --
O sad, and ever-plaining surge!
Whence art thou? From the convict-bark.
And why thy mournful voice? A dirge.

EDWIN ARNOLD, C. S. I.





NO ASSASSINATION.

_("Laissons le glaive a Rome. ")_

[Bk. III. xvi. , October, 1852. ]


Pray Rome put up her poniard!
And Sparta sheathe the sword;
Be none too prompt to punish,
And cast indignant word!
Bear back your spectral Brutus
From robber Bonaparte;
Time rarely will refute us
Who doom the hateful heart.

Ye shall be o'ercontented,
My banished mates from home,
But be no rashness vented
Ere time for joy shall come.
No crime can outspeed Justice,
Who, resting, seems delayed--
Full faith accord the angel
Who points the patient blade.

The traitor still may nestle
In balmy bed of state,
But mark the Warder, watching
His guardsman at his gate.
He wears the crown, a monarch--
Of knaves and stony hearts;
But though they're blessed by Senates,
None can escape the darts!

Though shored by spear and crozier,
All know the arrant cheat,
And shun the square of pavement
Uncertain at his feet!
Yea, spare the wretch, each brooding
And secret-leaguers' chief,
And make no pistol-target
Of stars upon the thief.

The knell of God strikes seldom
But in the aptest hour;
And when the life is sweetest,
The worm will feel His power!





THE DESPATCH OF THE DOOM.

_("Pendant que dans l'auberge. ")_

[Bk. IV. xiii. , Jersey, November, 1852. ]


While in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink,
Upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink?
Yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring sturdy steed,
A mute and grisly rider is trampling grass and weed,
And by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear,
I known it is _the Future_--God's Justicer is here!





THE SEAMAN'S SONG.

_("Adieu, patrie. ")_

[Bk. V. ix. , Aug. 1, 1852. ]


Farewell the strand,
The sails expand
Above!
Farewell the land
We love!
Farewell, old home where apples swing!
Farewell, gay song-birds on the wing!

Farewell, riff-raff
Of Customs' clerks who laugh
And shout:
"Farewell! " We'll quaff
One bout
To thee, young lass, with kisses sweet!
Farewell, my dear--the ship flies fleet!

The fog shuts out the last fond peep,
As 'neath the prow the cast drops weep.
Farewell, old home, young lass, the bird!
The whistling wind alone is heard:
Farewell! Farewell!





THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW.

_("Il neigeait. ")_

[Bk. V. xiii. , Nov. 25-30, 1852. ]


It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red!
For once the eagle was hanging its head.
Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back
On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black.
The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign
Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain.
Nor chief nor banner in order could keep,
The wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep.
The wings from centre could hardly be known
Through snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown,
Where froze the wounded.