Selected Poems (59 page)

605

And the cold flowers
¹
her colder hand contain’d,

In that last grasp as tenderly were strain’d

As if she scarcely felt, but feign’d a sleep,

And made it almost mockery yet to weep:

The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,

610

And veil’d – thought shrinks from all that lurk’d below –

Oh! o’er the eye Death most exerts his might,

And hurls the spirit from her throne of light!

Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,

But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips –

615

Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile,

And wish’d repose – but only for a while;

But the white shroud, and each extended tress,

Long – fair – but spread in utter lifelessness,

Which, late the sport of every summer wind,

620

Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;

These – and the pale pure cheek, became the bier –

But she is nothing – wherefore is he here?

XXI

He ask’d no question – all were answer’d now

By the first glance on that still – marble brow.

625

It was enough – she died – what reck’d it how?

The love of youth, the hope of better years,

The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears,

The only living thing he could not hate,

Was reft at once – and he deserved his fate,

630

But did not feel it less; – the good explore,

For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar:

The proud – the wayward – who have fix’d below

Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe,

Lose in that one their all – perchance a mite –

635

But who in patience parts with all delight?

Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern

Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn;

And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost,

In smiles that least befit who wear them most.

XXII

640

By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest

The indistinctness of the suffering breast;

Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one,

Which seeks from all the refuge found in none;

No words suffice the secret soul to show,

645

For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe.

On Conrad’s stricken soul exhaustion prest,

And stupor almost lull’d it into rest;

So feeble now – his mother’s softness crept

To those wild eyes, which like an infant’s wept:

650

It was the very weakness of his brain,

Which thus confess’d without relieving pain

None saw his trickling tears – perchance, if seen,

That useless flood of grief had never been:

Nor long they flow’d – he dried them to depart,

655

In helpless – hopeless – brokenness of heart:

The sun goes forth – but Conrad’s day is dim;

And the night cometh – ne’er to pass from him.

There is no darkness like the cloud of mind,

On Grief’s vain eye – the blindest of the blind!

660

Which may not – dare not see – but turns aside

To blackest shade – nor will endure a guide!

XXIII

His heart was form’d for softness – warp’d to wrong;

Betray’d too early, and beguiled too long;

Each feeling pure – as falls the dropping dew

665

Within the grot; like that had harden’d too;

Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass’d,

But sunk, and chill’d, and petrified at last.

Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock,

If such his heart, so shatter’d it the shock.

670

There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow,

Though dark the shade – it shelter’d – saved till now.

The thunder came – that bolt hath blasted both,

The Granite’s firmness, and the Lily’s growth:

The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell

675

Its tale, but shrunk and wither’d where it fell;

And of its cold protector, blacken round

But shiver’d fragments on the barren ground!

XXIV

’Tis morn – to venture on his lonely hour

Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower.

680

He was not there – nor seen along the shore;

Ere night, alarm’d, their isle is traversed o’er:

Another morn – another bids them seek,

And shout his name till echo waxeth weak;

Mount – grotto – cavern – valley search’d in vain,

685

They find on shore a sea-boat’s broken chain:

Their hope revives – they follow o’er the main.

’Tis idle all – moons roll on moons away,

And Conrad comes not – came not since that day:

Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare

690

Where lives his grief, or perished his despair!

Long mourn’d his band whom none could mourn beside;

And fair the monument they gave his bride:

For him they raise not the recording stone –

His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known;

695

He left a Corsair’s name to other times,

Link’d with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.
¹

Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte

‘Expende Annibalem: – quot libras in duce summo Invenles!’

J
UVENAL
,
Sat
. X.

‘The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues, and military talents, were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity.

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till –’

G
IBBON
’S
Decline and Fall
, vol. vi. p. 220.

I

’Tis done - but yesterday a King!

And arm’d with Kings to strive –

And now thou art a nameless thing:

So abject – yet alive!

5

Is this the man of thousand thrones,

Who strew’d our earth with hostile bones,

And can he thus survive?

Since he, miscall’d the Morning Star,

Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.

II

10

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind

Who bow’d so low the knee?

By gazing on thyself grown blind,

Thou taught’st the rest to see.

With might unquestion’d, - power to save, -

15

Thine only gift hath been the grave

To those that worshipp’d thee;

Nor till thy fall could mortals guess

Ambition’s less than littleness!

III

Thanks for that lesson – it will teach

20

To after-warriors more

Than high Philosophy can preach,

And vainly preach’d before.

That spell upon the minds of men

Breaks never to unite again,

25

That led them to adore

Those Pagod things of sabre sway,

With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.

IV

The triumph, and the vanity,

The rapture of the strife
¹
-

30

The earthquake voice of Victory,

To thee the breath of life;

The sword, the sceptre, and that sway

Which man seem’d made but to obey,

Wherewith renown was rife –

35

All quell’d! – Dark Spirit! what must be

The madness of thy memory!

V

The Desolator desolate!

The Victor overthrown!

The Arbiter of others’ fate

40

A Suppliant for his own!

Is it some yet imperial hope

That with such change can calmly cope?

Or dread of death alone?

To die a prince - or live a slave -

45

Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

VI

He who of old would rend the oak,

Dream’d not of the rebound;

Chain’d by the trunk he vainly broke –

Alone – how look’d he round?

50

Thou in the sternness of thy strength

An equal deed hast done at length,

And darker fate hast found:

He fell, the forest prowlers’ prey;

But thou must eat thy heart away!

VII

55

The Roman,
¹
when his burning heart

Was slaked with blood of Rome,

Threw down the dagger - dared depart,

In savage grandeur, home. –

He dared depart in utter scorn

60

Of men that such a yoke had borne,

Yet left him such a doom!

His only glory was that hour

Of self-upheld abandon’d power.

VIII

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway

65

Had lost its quickening spell,

Cast crowns for rosaries away,

An empire for a cell;

A strict accountant of his beads,

A subtle disputant on creeds,

70

His dotage trifled well:

Yet better had he neither known

A bigot’s shrine, nor despot’s throne.

IX

But thou – from thy reluctant hand

The thunderbolt is wrung –

75

Too late thou leav’st the high command

To which thy weakness clung;

All Evil Spirit as thou art,

It is enough to grieve the heart

To see thine own unstrung;

80

To think that God’s fair world hath been

The footstool of a thing so mean;

X

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,

Who thus can hoard his own!

And Monarchs bow’d the trembling limb,

85

And thank’d him for a throne!

Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,

When thus thy mightiest foes their fear

In humblest guise have shown.

Oh! ne’er may tyrant leave behind

90

A brighter name to lure mankind!

XI

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,

Nor written thus in vain -

Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,

Or deepen every stain:

95

If thou hadst died as honour dies,

Some new Napoleon might arise,

To shame the world again -

But who would soar the solar height,

To set in such a starless night?

XII

100

Weigh’d in the balance, here dust

Is vile as vulgar clay;

Thy scales, Mortality! are just

To all that pass away:

But yet methought the living great

105

Some higher sparks should animate,

To dazzle and dismay:

Nor deem’d Contempt could thus make mirth

Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.

XIII

And she, proud Austria’s mournful flower,

110

Thy still imperial bride;

How bears her breast the torturing hour?

Still clings she to thy side?

Must she too bend, must she too share

Thy late repentance, long despair,

115

Thou throneless Homicide?

If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,

’Tis worth thy vanish’d diadem!

XIV

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,

And gaze upon the sea;

120

That element may meet thy smile –

It ne’er was ruled by thee!

Or trace with thine all idle hand

In loitering mood upon the sand

That Earth is now as free!

125

That Corinth’s pedagogue hath now

Transferr’d his by-word to thy brow.

XV

Thou Timour! in his captive’s cage
¹

What thoughts will there be thine,

While brooding in thy prison’d rage?

130

But one – ‘The world
was
mine!’

Unless, like he of Babylon,

All sense is with thy sceptre gone,

Life will not long confine

That spirit pour’d so widely forth –

135

So long obey’d – so little worth!

XVI

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
²

Wilt thou withstand the shock?

And share with him, the unforgiven,

His vulture and his rock!

140

Foredoom’d by God – by man accurst,

And that last act, though not thy worst,

The very Fiend’s arch mock;1

He in his fall preserved his pride,

And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!

XVII

145

There was a day – there was an hour,

While earth was Gaul’s – Gaul thine –

When that immeasurable power

Unsated to resign

Had been an act of purer fame

150

Than gathers round Marengo’s name

And gilded thy decline,

Through the long twilight of all time,

Despite some passing clouds of crime.

XVIII

But thou forsooth must be a king,