Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him; Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honour'd race.-It was a name Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not-and why? Time taught him a deep answer-when she loved Another; even now she loved another, And on the summit of that hill she stood Looking afar if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.
A change came or the spirit of my dream. 'There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparison'd: Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake;-he was alone, And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 't were With a convulsion-then arose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears. And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet: as he paused, The Lady of his love re-enter'd there; She was serene and smiling then, and yet She knew she was by him beloved,she knew, For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw That he was wretched, but she saw not all. He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp He took her hand; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd From out the massy gate of that old Hall, And mounting on his steed he went his way; And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his Soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all: and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumber'd around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. T.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love was wed with One Who did not love her better:-in her home, A thousand leagues from his,-her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, Daughters and sons of Beauty,-but behold! Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be?—she had loved hum no Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was return'd.-I saw him stand Before an Altar-with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made The Starlight of his Boyhood ;-as he stood Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock That in the antique Oratory shook His bosom in its solitude; and then- As in that hour-a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, And all things reel'd around him; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been➡ But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, And the remember'd chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny, came back And thrust themselves between him and the light: What business had they there at such a time?
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The lady of his love -Oh! she was changed As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls phrensy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth? Which strips the distance of its phantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real!
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compass'd round With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd In all which was served up to him, until, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, 11 He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Through that which had been death to many men. And made him friends of mountains: with the star And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was open'd wide And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd A marvel and a secret-Be it so.
My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality-the one
To end in madness-both in misery.
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself an equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory.
Los Moros que el son oyeron, Que al sangriento Marte llama, Uno a uno, y dos a dos, Un gran esquadron formavan. Ay de mi, Alhama! 7.
Alli hablò un Moro viejo; Desta manera hablava :- Para que nos llamas, Rey? Para que es este llamada? Ay de mi, Alhama!
Que Christianos, con braveza,
Ya nos han tomado Alhama. Ay de mi, Alhama!
Alli hablò un viejo Alfaqui, De barba crecida y cana :- Bien se te emplea, buen Rey, Buen Rey; bien se te empleava. Ay de mi, Alhama!
Mataste los Bencerrages, Que era ia flor de Granada; Cogiste los tornadizos
De Cordova la nombrada.
Ay de mi, Alhama!
Por esso mereces, Rey,
Una pene bien doblada;
Que te pierdas tu el reyno, Y que se pierda Granada. Ay de mi, Alhama! 12.
Si no se respetan leyes, Es ley que todo se pierda; Y que se pierda Granada, Y que te pierdas en ella. Ay de mi, Alhama! 13.
Fuego por los ojos vierte, El Rey que esto oyera. Y como el otro de leyes De leyes tambien hablava. Ay de mi, Alhama! 14.
Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes De darle a Reyes disgusto.- Esso dize el Rey Moro Relinchando de colera. Ay de mi, Alhama!
Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui,
El Rey te manda prender, Por la perdida de Alhama. Ay de mi, Alhama! 16.
Y cortarte la cabeza,
Y ponerla en el Alhambra,
Por que a ti castigo sea,
Yotros tiemblen en miralla. Ay de mi, Alhama!
Out then spake old Alfaqui, With his beard so white to see, "Good King! thou art justly served, Good King! this thou hast deserved. Wo is me, Alhama! 10.
"By thee were slain, in evil hour, The Abencerrage, Granada's flower; And strangers were received by thee Of Cordova the Chivalry.
Wo is me, Alhama! 11.
"And for this, oh King! is sent On thee a double chastisement: Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, One last wreck shall overwhelm. Wo is me, Alhama!
"He who holds no laws in awe, He must perish by the law; And Granada must be won. And thyself with her undone."
Wo is me, Alhama! 13.
Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes The Monarch's wrath began to rise, Because he answer'd, and because He spake exceeding well of laws. Wo is me, Alhama!
"There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings:"- Thus, snorting with his choler, said The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. Wo is me, Alhama !
Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! Though thy beard so hoary be,
The King hath sent to have thee scized, For Alhama's loss displeased,
Wo is me, Alhama! 16.
And to fix thy head upon High Alhambra's loftiest stone; That this for thee should be the law, And others tremble when they saw.
Wo is me, Alhama.
Di que vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte Lieti miseri padri il ciel ne feo,
Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte L'una e l'altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo. La mia fu tolta da veloce morte
A le fumanti tede d' imeneo:
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo. Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde, La sua tenera udir voce pietosa. Io verso un fiume d' amarissim' onda,
Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.
TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.
Sonnet composed in the name of a father whose daughter had recentry died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.
Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires, Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, And gazing upon either, both required. Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired Becomes extinguish'd, soon-too soon-expires: But thine, within the closing grate retired, Eternal captive, to her God aspires.
But thou at least from out the jealous door, Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more
I to the marble where my daughter lies,
Rush, the swoln flood of bitterness I pour
And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.
Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,
A loud lament along the sweeping sea! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do ?-any thing but weep: And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers-as the slime, The dull green ooze of the receding deep, Is with the dashing of the springtide foam That drives the sailor shipless to his home, Are they to those that were; and thus they creep, Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. Oh! agony-that centuries should reap
No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears; And every monument the stranger meets, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; And even the Lion all subdued appears, And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, With duil and daily dissonance, repeats The echo of thy tyrant's voice along The soft waves, once all musical to song,
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng Of gondolas-and to the busy hum
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds Were but the overbeating of the heart, And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. But these are better than the gloomy errors, l'he weeds of nations in their last decay, When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; And Hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, And apathy of lunb, the dull beginning
Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay, To him appears renewal of his breath, And freedom the mere numbness of his chain; And then he talks of life, and how again He feels his spirits soaring-albeit weak, And of the fresher air, which he would seek; And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, And so the film comes o'er him—and the dizzy Chamber swims round and round—and shadows busy, At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, Till the last rattle chokes the strangled stream, And all is ice and blackness,—and the earth That which it was the moment ere our birth.
There is no hope for nations!-Search the page Of many thousand years-the daily scene, The flow and ebb of each recurring age, The everlasting to be which hath been, Hath taught us naught or little: still we lean On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear Our strength away in wrestling with the air; For 't is our nature strikes us down: the beasts Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts Are of as high an order-they must go Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. who pour your blood for kings as water, What have they given your children in return? A heritage of servitude and woes,
A blindfold bondage, whore your hire is blows.
What! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn. O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, And deem this proof of loyalty the real; Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? All that your sires have left you, all that Time Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, Spring from a different theme!-Ye see and read, Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed! Save the few spirits, who, despite of all,
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, Gushing from Freedom's fountains-when the crewd, Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, And trample on each other to obtain
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain Heavy and sore,-in which long yoked they plough'd The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain, "T was not for them, their necks were too much bow'd, And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain:- Yes! the few spirits-who, despite of deeds Which they abhor, confound not with the cause Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth With all her seasons to repair the blight With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations-fair, when free- For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!
Glory and Empire! once upon these towers With Freedom-godlike Triad! how sate! The league of mightiest nations, in those hours When Venice was an envy, might abate, But did not quench, her spirit-in her fate All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, Although they humbled-with the kingly few The many felt, for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship;-even her crimes Were of the softer order-born of Love,
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread; For these restored the Cross, that from above Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank The city it has clothed in chains, which clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of Freedon to her glorious struggles; Yet she but shares with them a common wo,
And call'd the "kingdom" of a conquering foe,
But knows what all-and, most of all, we know— With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!
The name of Commonwealth is past and gone O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, For tyranny of late is cunning grown, And in its own good season tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand
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