the world is full of orphans firstly, those
Who are so in the strict sense of the phrase
But many a lonely tree the loftier grows
Than others crowded in the forest's maze
the next are such as are not doomed to lose
their tender parents in their budding days
But merely their parental tenderness
Which leaves them orphans of the heart no less.

the next are 'only children', as they are styled
Who grow up children only, since the old saw
Pronounces that an 'only' 's a spoilt child.
But not to go too far, I hold it law
That where their education, harsh or mild
'Transgresses the great bounds of love or awe
the sufferers, be't in heart or intellect
Whate'er the cause are orphans in effect.

But to return unto the stricter rule
As far as words make rules, our common notion
Of orphans paints at once a parish school
 A half-starved babe, a wreck upon life's ocean
A human what the Italians nickname 'mule'
 A theme for pity or some worse emotion
Yet, if examined, it might be admitted
the wealthiest orphans are to be more pitied.

Too soon they are parents to themselves for what
Are tutors, guardians, and so forth, compared
With Nature's genial genitors, so that
A child of Chancery, that Star Chamber ward
I'll take the likeness I can first come at
Is like a duckling by Dame Partlett reared
And frights, especially if 'tis a daughter
the old hen by running headlong to the water.

there is a commonplace book argument
Which glibly glides from every vulgar tongue
When any dare a new light to present
'If you are right, then everybody's wrong.'
Suppose the converse of this precedent
So often urged, so loudly and so long
'If you are wrong, then everybody's right.'
Was ever everybody yet so quite?

therefore I would solicit free discussion
Upon all points, no matter what or whose
Because as ages upon ages push on
the last is apt the former to accuse
Of pillowing its head on a pincushion
Heedless of pricks because it was obtuse.
What was a paradox becomes a truth or
A something like it, as bear witness Luther.

the sacraments have been reduced to two
And witches unto none, though somewhat late
Since burning aged women save a few
Not witches, only bitches, who create
Mischief in families, as some know or knew
Should still be singed, but slightly let me state
Has been declared an act of inurbanity
MalgéSir Matthew Hale's great humanity.

Great Galileo was debarred the sun
Because he fixed it, and to stop his talking
How earth could round the solar orbit run
Found his own legs embargoed from mere walking.
the man was well nigh dead, ere men begun
To think his skull had not some need of caulking
But now it seems he's right, his notion just
No doubt a consolation to his dust.

Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates but pages
Might be filled up, as vainly as before
With the sad usage of all sorts of sages
Who in his lifetime each was deemed a bore.
the loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages
This they must bear with and perhaps much more.
the wise man's sure when he no more can share it, he
Will have a firm post-obit on posterity.

If such doom waits each intellectual giant
We little people in our lesser way
To life's small rubs should surely be more pliant
And so for one will I, as well I may.
Would that I were less bilious but oh fie on't!
Just as I make my mind up everyday
To be a totus teres stoic, sage
the wind shifts and I fly into a rage.

Temperate I am, yet never had a temper
Modest I am, yet with some slight assurance
Changeable too, yet somehow idem semper
Patient, but not enamoured of endurance
Cheerful, but sometimes rather apt to whimper
Mild, but at times a sort of Hercules furens
So that I almost think that the same skin
For one without has two or three within.

Our hero was in canto the sixteenth
Left in a tender moonlight situation
Such as enables man to show his strength
Moral or physical On this occasion
Whether his virtue triumphed, or at length
His vice for he was of a kindling nation
Is more than I shall venture to describe
Unless some beauty with a kiss should bribe.

I leave the thing a problem, like all things.
the morning came, and breakfast, tea and toast
Of which most men partake, but no one sings.
the company, whose birth, wealth, worth have cost
My trembling lyre already several strings
Assembled with our hostess and mine host.
the guests dropped in, the last but one, Her Grace
the latest, Juan with his virgin face.

Which best is to encounter, ghost or none
'Twere difficult to say, but Juan looked
As if he had combated with more than one
Being wan and worn, with eyes that hardly brooked
the light that through the Gothic windows shone.
Her Grace too had a sort of air rebuked
Seemed pale and shivered, as if she had kept
A vigil or dreamt rather more than slept.

How sweetly shines, through azure skies
The lamp of Heaven on Lora's shore
Where Alva's hoary turrets rise
And hear the din of arms no more!

But often has yon rolling moon
On Alva's casques of silver play'd
And view'd, at midnight's silent noon
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd

And, on the crimson'd rocks beneath
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow
Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death
She saw the gasping warrior low

While many an eye, which ne'er again
Could mark the rising orb of day
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain
Beheld in death her fading ray.

Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love
They blest her dear propitious light
But, now, she glimmer'd from above
A sad, funereal torch of night.

Faded is Alva's noble race
And grey her towers are seen afar
No more her heroes urge the chase
Or roll the crimson tide of war.

But, who was last of Alva's clan?
Why grows the moss on Alva's stone?
Her towers resound no steps of man
They echo to the gale alone.

And, when that gale is fierce and high
A sound is heard in yonder hall
It rises hoarsely through the sky
And vibrates o'er the mould'ring wall.

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave
But, there, no more his banners rise
No more his plumes of sable wave.

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth
When Angus hail'd his eldest born
The vassals round their chieftain's hearth
Crowd to applaud the happy morn.

They feast upon the mountain deer
The Pibroch rais'd its piercing note
To gladden more their Highland cheer
The strains in martial numbers float.

And they who heard the war-notes wild
Hop'd that, one day, the Pibroch's strain
Should play before the Hero's child
While he should lead the Tartan train.

Another year is quickly past
And Angus hails another son
His natal day is like the last
Nor soon the jocund feast was done.

Taught by their sire to bend the bow
On Alva's dusky hills of wind
The boys in childhood chas'd the roe
And left their hounds in speed behind.

But ere their years of youth are o'er
They mingle in the ranks of war
They lightly wheel the bright claymore
And send the whistling arrow far.

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair
Wildly it stream'd along the gale
But Allan's locks were bright and fair
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale.

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul
His dark eye shone through beams of truth
Allan had early learn'd controul
And smooth his words had been from youth.

Both, both were brave the Saxon spear
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel
And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel

While Allan's soul belied his form
Unworthy with such charms to dwell
Keen as the lightning of the storm
On foes his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon's distant tower
Arrived a young and noble dame
With Kenneth's lands to form her dower
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride
And Angus on his Oscar smil'd
It soothed the father's feudal pride
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child.

Hark! to the Pibroch's pleasing note
Hark! to the swelling nuptial song
In joyous strains the voices float
And, still, the choral peal prolong.

See how the Heroes' blood-red plumes
Assembled wave in Alva's hall
Each youth his varied plaid assumes
Attending on their chieftain's call.

It is not war their aid demands
The Pibroch plays the song of peace
To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.

But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame?
While thronging guests and ladies wait
Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

At length young Allan join'd the bride
"Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said
"Is he not here?" the Youth replied
"With me he rov'd not o'er the glade

"Perchance, forgetful of the day
'Tis his to chase the bounding roe
Or Ocean's waves prolong his stay
Yet, Oscar's bark is seldom slow."

"Oh, no!" the anguish'd Sire rejoin'd
"Nor chase, nor wave, my Boy delay
Would he to Mora seem unkind?
Would aught to her impede his way?

"Oh, search, ye Chiefs! oh, search around!
Allan, with these, through Alva fly
Till Oscar, till my son is found
Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply."

All is confusion through the vale
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings
It rises on the murm'ring gale
Till night expands her dusky wings.

It breaks the stillness of the night
But echoes through her shades in vain
It sounds through morning's misty light
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain.

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave
Then hope is lost in boundless grief
His locks in grey-torn ringlets wave.

"Oscar! my son! thou God of Heav'n
Restore the prop of sinking age!
Or, if that hope no more is given
Yield his assassin to my rage.

"Yes, on some desert rocky shore
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie
Then grant, thou God! I ask no more
With him his frantic Sire may die!

"Yet, he may live, away, despair!
Be calm, my soul! he yet may live
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear!
O God! my impious prayer forgive.

"What, if he live for me no more
I sink forgotten in the dust
The hope of Alva's age is o'er
Alas! can pangs like these be just?"

Thus did the hapless Parent mourn
Till Time, who soothes severest woe
Had bade serenity return
And made the tear-drop cease to flow.

For, still, some latent hope surviv'd
That Oscar might once more appear
His hope now droop'd and now revived
Till Time had told a tedious year.

Days roll'd along, the orb of light
Again had run his destined race
No Oscar bless'd his father's sight
And sorrow left a fainter trace.

For youthful Allan still remain'd
And, now, his father's only joy
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy.

She thought that Oscar low was laid
And Allan's face was wondrous fair
If Oscar liv'd, some other maid
Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care.

And Angus said, if one year more
In fruitless hope was pass'd away
His fondest scruples should be o'er
And he would name their nuptial day.

Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last
Arriv'd the dearly destin'd morn
The year of anxious trembling past
What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn!

Hark to the Pibroch's pleasing note!
Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float
And, still, the choral peal prolong.

Again the clan, in festive crowd
Throng through the gate of Alva's hall
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud
And all their former joy recall.

But who is he, whose darken'd brow
Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eyes' far fiercer glow
The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.

Dark is the robe which wraps his form
And tall his plume of gory red
His voice is like the rising storm
But light and trackless is his tread.

'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound
And all combine to hail the draught.

Sudden the stranger-chief arose
And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows
And Mora's tender bosom blush'd.

"Old man!" he cried, "this pledge is done
Thou saw'st 'twas truly drunk by me
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son
Now will I claim a pledge from thee.

"While all around is mirth and joy
To bless thy Allan's happy lot
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy?
Say, why should Oscar be forgot?"

"Alas!" the hapless Sire replied
The big tear starting as he spoke
"When Oscar left my hall, or died
This aged heart was almost broke.

"Thrice has the earth revolv'd her course
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight
And Allan is my last resource
Since martial Oscar's death, or flight."

"'Tis well," replied the stranger stern
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye
"Thy Oscar's fate, I fain would learn
Perhaps the Hero did not die.

"Perchance, if those, whom most he lov'd
Would call, thy Oscar might return
Perchance, the chief has only rov'd
For him thy Beltane, yet, may burn.

"Fill high the bowl the table round
We will not claim the pledge by stealth
With wine let every cup be crown'd
Pledge me departed Oscar's health."

"With all my soul," old Angus said
And fill'd his goblet to the brim
"Here's to my boy! alive or dead
I ne'er shall find a son like him."

"Bravely, old man, this health has sped
But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead
And raise thy cup with firmer hand."

The crimson glow of Allan's face
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue
The drops of death each other chace
Adown in agonizing dew.

Thrice did he raise the goblet high
And thrice his lips refused to taste
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye
On his with deadly fury plac'd.

"And is it thus a brother hails
A brother's fond remembrance here?
If thus affection's strength prevails
What might we not expect from fear?"

Roused by the sneer, he rais'd the bowl
"Would Oscar now could share our mirth!"
Internal fear appall'd his soul
He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.

"'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!"
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form.
"A murderer's voice!" the roof replies
And deeply swells the bursting storm.

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink
The stranger's gone,amidst the crew
A Form was seen, in tartan green
And tall the shade terrific grew.

His waist was bound with a broad belt round
His plume of sable stream'd on high
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye.

And thrice he smil'd, with his eye so wild
On Angus bending low the knee
And thrice he frown'd, on a Chief on the ground
Whom shivering crowds with horror see.

The bolts loud roll from pole to pole
And thunders through the welkin ring
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.

Cold was the feast, the revel ceas'd.
Who lies upon the stony floor?
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast
At length his life-pulse throbs once more.

"Away, away! let the leech essay
To pour the light on Allan's eyes"
His sand is done,his race is run
Oh! never more shall Allan rise!

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay
His locks are lifted by the gale
And Allan's barbèd arrow lay
With him in dark Glentanar's vale

And whence the dreadful stranger came
Or who, no mortal wight can tell
But no one doubts the form of flame
For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.

Ambition nerv'd young Allan's hand
Exulting demons wing'd his dart
While Envy wav'd her burning brand
And pour'd her venom round his heart

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow
Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low
The dart has drunk his vital tide

And Mora's eye could Allan move
She bade his wounded pride rebel
Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love
Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell.

Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb
Which rises o'er a warrior dead?
It glimmers through the twilight gloom
Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed.

Far, distant far, the noble grave
Which held his clan's great ashes stood
And o'er his corse no banners wave
For they were stain'd with kindred blood.

What minstrel grey, what hoary bard
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory's chief reward
But who can strike a murd'rer's praise?

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand
No minstrel dare the theme awake
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand
His harp in shuddering chords would break.

No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse
Shall sound his glories high in air
A dying father's bitter curse
A brother's death-groan echoes there.

Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true
The love which you felt was the love of a brother
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion
The attachment of years, in a moment expires
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.

Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But Winter's rude tempests are gathering now.

No more with Affection shall Memory blending
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace
When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending
And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.

However, dear George, for I still must esteem you
The few, whom I love, I can never upbraid
The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection
With me no corroding resentment shall live
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.

You knew, that my soul, that my heart, my existence
If danger demanded, were wholly your own
You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.

You knew,but away with the vain retrospection!
The bond of affection no longer endures
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection
And sigh for the friend, who was formerly yours.

For the present, we part,I will hope not for ever
For time and regret will restore you at last
To forget our dissension we both should endeavor
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.

Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace
His costly canvas with each flattered face
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush
Saw cits grow Centaurs underneath his brush?
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale
A Maid of Honor to a Mermaid's tail?
Or low Dubost as once the world has seen
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen?
Not all that forced politeness, which defends
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends.
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete
Poetic Nightmares, without head or feet.

Poets and painters, as all artists know
May shoot a little with a lengthened bow
We claim this mutual mercy for our task
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs.

A labored, long Exordium, sometimes tends
Like patriot speeches but to paltry ends
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down
As Pertness passes with a legal gown
Thus many a Bard describes in pompous strain
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain
The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls
King's Coll-Cam's stream-stained windows, and old walls

Or, in adventurous numbers, neatly aims
To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames
You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign
You plan a vase it dwindles to a pot
Then glide down Grub-street fasting and forgot
Laughed into Lethe by some quaint Review
Whose wit is never troublesome till true.

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire
Let it at least be simple and entire.
The greater portion of the rhyming tribe
Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe
Are led astray by some peculiar lure.
I labour to be brief become obscure
One falls while following Elegance too fast
Another soars, inflated with Bombast
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly
He spins his subject to Satiety
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves!

Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice
The flight from Folly leads but into Vice
None are complete, all wanting in some part
Like certain tailors, limited in art.
For galligaskins Slowshears is your man
But coats must claim another artisan.
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose
Black eyes, black ringlets, but a bottle nose!
Dear Authors! suit your topics to your strength
And ponder well your subject, and its length
Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice
Await the Poet, skillful in his choice
With native Eloquence he soars along
Grace in his thoughts, and Music in his song.

Let Judgment teach him wisely to combine
With future parts the now omitted line
This shall the Author choose, or that reject
Precise in style, and cautious to select
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford
To him who furnishes a wanting word.
Then fear not, if 'tis needful, to produce
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use
As Pitt has furnished us a word or two
Which Lexicographers declined to do
So you indeed, with care, but be content
To take this license rarely may invent.
New words find credit in these latter days
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase
80 What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer Muse.
If you can add a little, say why not
As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott?
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs
Enriched our Island's ill-united tongues
'Tis then and shall be lawful to present
Reform in writing, as in Parliament.

As forests shed their foliage by degrees
So fade expressions which in season please
And we and ours, alas! are due to Fate
And works and words but dwindle to a date.
Though as a Monarch nods, and Commerce calls
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drained, sustain
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain
And rising ports along the busy shore
Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar
All, all, must perish but, surviving last
The love of Letters half preserves the past
True, some decay, yet not a few revive
Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive
As Custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway
Our life and language must alike obey.

The immortal wars which Gods and Angels wage
Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page?
His strain will teach what numbers best belong
To themes celestial told in Epic song.
The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint
The Lover's anguish, or the Friend's complaint.
But which deserves the Laurel Rhyme or Blank?
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank?
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit.
Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen.
You doubt see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's Dean.
Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side.
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's days
No sing-song Hero rants in modern plays
Whilst modest Comedy her verse foregoes
For jest and 'pun' in very middling prose.
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse.
But so Thalia pleases to appear
Poor Virgin! damned some twenty times a year!

Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight
Adapt your language to your Hero's state.
At times Melpomene forgets to groan
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone
Nor unregarded will the act pass by
Where angry Townly ["lifts his voice on high."
Again, our Shakespeare limits verse to Kings
When common prose will serve for common things
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire
To "hollaing Hotspur" and his sceptred sire.
'Tis not enough, ye Bards, with all your art
To polish poems they must touch the heart
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along
Command your audience or to smile or weep
Whiche'er may please you anything but sleep.
The Poet claims our tears but, by his leave
Before I shed them, let me see 'him' grieve.

If banished Romeo feigned nor sigh nor tear
Lulled by his languor, I could sleep or sneer.
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face
And men look angry in the proper place.
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly
And Sentiment prescribes a pensive eye
For Nature formed at first the inward man
And actors copy Nature when they can.
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound
Raised to the Stars, or levelled with the ground
And for Expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung
She gave our mind's interpreter the tongue
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense
At least in theatres with common sense
O'erwhelm with sound the Boxes, Gallery, Pit
And raise a laugh with anything but Wit.

To skilful writers it will much import
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or Court
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear
To draw a Lying Valet, or a Lear
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school
A wandering Peregrine, or plain John Bull
All persons please when Nature's voice prevails
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales.

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not!
One precept serves to regulate the scene
Make it appear as if it might have been.

If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw
Present him raving, and above all law
If female furies in your scheme are planned
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand
For tears and treachery, for good and evil
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil!
But if a new design you dare essay
And freely wander from the beaten way
True to your characters, till all be past
Preserve consistency from first to last.

Tis hard to venture where our betters fail
Or lend fresh interest to a twice told tale
And yet, perchance,'tis wiser to prefer
A hackneyed plot, than choose a new, and err
Yet copy not too closely, but record
More justly, thought for thought than word for word
Nor trace your Prototype through narrow ways
But only follow where he merits praise.

For you, young Bard! whom luckless fate may lead
To tremble on the nod of all who read
Ere your first score of cantos Time unrolls
Beware for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles!
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain,"
And pray, what follows from his boiling brain?
He sinks to Southey's level in a trice
Whose Epic Mountains never fail in mice!
Not so of yore awoke your mighty Sire
The tempered warblings of his master-lyre
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute
"Of Man's first disobedience and the fruit"
He speaks, but, as his subject swells along
Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song."
Still to the "midst of things" he hastens on
As if we witnessed all already done
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene
Gives, as each page improves upon the sight
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness light
And truth and fiction with such art compounds
We know not where to fix their several bounds.
If you would please the Public, deign to hear
What soothes the many-headed monster's ear

If your heart triumph when the hands of all
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall
Deserve those plaudits study Nature's page
And sketch the striking traits of every age
While varying Man and varying years unfold
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told
Observe his simple childhood's dawning days
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens!

Behold him Freshman! forced no more to groan
O'er Virgil's [18] devilish verses and his own
Prayers are too tedious, Lectures too abstruse
He flies from Tavell's frown to "Fordham's Mews"
Unlucky Tavell! doomed to daily cares
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears
Fines, Tutors, tasks, Conventions threat in vain
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket Plain.
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash
Constant to nought save hazard and a whore
Yet cursing both for both have made him sore
Unread unless since books beguile disease
The P----x becomes his passage to Degrees
Fooled, pillaged, dunned, he wastes his terms away
And unexpelled, perhaps, retires M.A.
Master of Arts! as hells and clubs proclaim
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name!

Launched into life, extinct his early fire
He apes the selfish prudence of his Sire
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank
Sits in the Senate gets a son and heir
Sends him to Harrow for himself was there.
Mute, though he votes, unless when called to cheer
His son's so sharp he'll see the dog a Peer!

Manhood declines Age palsies every limb
He quits the scene or else the scene quits him
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves
And Avarice seizes all Ambition leaves
Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets
O'er hoards diminished by young Hopeful's debts
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy
Complete in all life's lessons but to die
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please
Commending every time, save times like these
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot
Expires unwept is buried Let him rot!

But from the Drama let me not digress
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less.
Though Woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirred
When what is done is rather seen than heard
Yet many deeds preserved in History's page
Are better told than acted on the stage
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye
And Horror thus subsides to Sympathy
True Briton all beside, I here am French
Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow
In tragic scenes disgusts though but in show
We hate the carnage while we see the trick
And find small sympathy in being sick.
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth
Appals an audience with a Monarch's death
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours or Nature bear?
A haltered heroine Johnson sought to slay
We saved Irene, but half damned the play
And Heaven be praised! our tolerating times
Stint Metamorphoses to Pantomimes
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake!
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief
We loathe the action which exceeds belief
And yet, God knows! what may not authors do
Whose Postscripts prate of dyeing "heroines blue"?

Above all things, _Dan_ Poet, if you can
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape
 Must open ten trap-doors for your escape.
Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid
I loathe an Opera worse than Dennis did
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong
Rage, love, and aught but moralise in song.
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends!
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay
On whores spies singers wisely shipped away.
Our giant Capital, whose squares are spread
Where rustics earned, and now may beg, their bread
In all iniquity is grown so nice
It scorns amusements which are not of price.
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore
His anguish doubling by his own "encore"
Squeezed in "Fop's Alley," jostled by the beaux
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease
Till the dropped curtain gives a glad release
Why this, and more, he suffers can ye guess?
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress!

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools
Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools!
Ere scenes were played by many a reverend clerk
What harm, if David danced before the ark?
In Christmas revels, simple country folks
Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse jokes.
Improving years, with things no longer known
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low
'Tis strange Benvolio [28] suffers such a show
Suppressing peer! to whom each vice gives place
Oaths, boxing, begging all, save rout and race.

Farce followed Comedy, and reached her prime
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time
Mad wag! who pardoned none, nor spared the best
And turned some very serious things to jest
Nor Church nor State escaped his public sneers
Arms nor the Gown Priests Lawyers Volunteers
"Alas, poor Yorick!" now for ever mute!
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote.

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes
Ape the swoln dialogue of Kings and Queens
When "Crononhotonthologos must die,"
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty.
Moschus! with whom once more I hope to sit
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit
Yes, Friend! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell
And bear Swift's motto, "Vive la bagatelle!"
Which charmed our days in each Ægean clime
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme.
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past
Soothe thy Life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last
But find in thine like pagan Plato's bed
Some merry Manuscript of Mimes, when dead.

Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes
Where fettered by whig Walpole low she lies
Corruption foiled her, for she feared her glance
Decorum left her for an Opera dance!
Yet Chesterfield, whose polished pen inveighs
'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our Plays
Unchecked by Megrims of patrician brains
And damning Dulness of Lord Chamberlains.
Repeal that act! again let Humour roam
Wild o'er the stage we've time for tears at home
Let Archer plant the horns on Sullen's brows
And Estifania gull her "Copper" pouse
The moral's scant but that may be excused
Men go not to be lectured, but amused.
He whom our plays dispose to Good or Ill
Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill
Aye, but Macheath's example sha! no more!
It formed no thieves the thief was formed before
And spite of puritans and Collier's curse
Plays make mankind no better, and no worse.
Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men!
Nor burn damned Drury if it rise again.
But why to brain-scorched bigots thus appeal?
Can heavenly Mercy dwell with earthly Zeal?
For times of fire and faggot let them hope!
Times dear alike to puritan or Pope.
As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze
So would new sects on newer victims gaze.
E'en now the songs of Solyma begin
Faith cants, perplexed apologist of Sin!
While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves
And Simeon kicks, where Baxter only "shoves."

Whom Nature guides, so writes, that every dunce
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails
And twenty scattered quires, the coxcomb fails.

Let Pastoral be dumb for who can hope
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope?
Yet his and Philips' faults, of different kind
For Art too rude, for Nature too refined
Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit.

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste
The dirty language, and the noisome jest
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest
Proscribed not only in the world polite
But even too nasty for a City Knight!

Peace to Swift's faults! his wit hath made them pass
Unmatched by all, save matchless Hudibras!
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet
Who from our couplet lopped two final feet
Nor less in merit than the longer line
This measure moves a favourite of the Nine.
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain
Formed, save in Ode, to bear a serious strain
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight
And, varied skilfully, surpasses far
Heroic rhyme, but most in Love and War
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime
Are curbed too much by long-recurring rhyme.

But many a skillful judge abhors to see
What few admire irregularity.
This some vouchsafe to pardon but 'tis hard
When such a word contents a British Bard.

And must the Bard his glowing thoughts confine
Lest Censure hover o'er some faulty line?
Remove whatever a critic may suspect
To gain the paltry suffrage of "Correct"?
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase
To fly from Error, not to merit Praise?

Ye, who seek finished models, never cease
By day and night, to read the works of Greece.
But our good Fathers never bent their brains
To heathen Greek, content with native strains.
The few who read a page, or used a pen
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste
Were quaint and careless, anything but chaste
Yet, whether right or wrong the ancient rules
It will not do to call our Fathers fools!

Though you and I, who eruditely know
To separate the elegant and low
Can also, when a hobbling line appears
Detect with fingers in default of ears.
In sooth I do not know, or greatly care
To learn, who our first English strollers were
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art
Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart
But this is certain, since our Shakespeare's days
There's pomp enough if little else in plays
Nor will Melpomene ascend her Throne
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone.

Old Comedies still meet with much applause
Though too licentious for dramatic laws
At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest.

Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside
Our enterprising Bards pass nought untried
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose
An English subject for an English Muse
And leave to minds which never dare invent
French flippancy and German sentiment.
Where is that living language which could claim
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame
If all our Bards, more patient of delay
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way?

Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults
Overthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail
And prove our marble with too nice a nail!
Democritus himself was not so bad
He only 'thought' but 'you' would make us mad!

But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard
Against that ridicule they deem so hard
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet
And walk in alleys rather than the street.

With little rhyme, less reason, if you please
The name of Poet may be got with ease
So that not tuns of helleboric juice
Shall ever turn your head to any use
Write but like Wordsworth live beside a lake
And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake
Then print your book, once more return to town
And boys shall hunt your Bardship up and down.
Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight
To purge in spring like Bayes before I write?
If this precaution softened not my bile
I know no scribbler with a madder style
But since perhaps my feelings are too nice
I cannot purchase Fame at such a price
I'll labour gratis as a grinders' wheel
And, blunt myself, give edge to other's steel
Nor write at all, unless to teach the art
To those rehearsing for the Poet's part
From Horace show the pleasing paths of song
And from my own example what is wrong.

Though modern practice sometimes differs quite
'Tis just as well to think before you write
Let every book that suits your theme be read
So shall you trace it to the fountain head.

He who has learned the duty which he owes
To friends and country, and to pardon foes
Who models his deportment as may best
Accord with Brother, Sire, or Stranger guest
Who takes our Laws and Worship as they are
Nor roars reform for Senate, Church, and Bar
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize
Such is the man the Poet should rehearse
As joint exemplar of his life and verse.

Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold
A longer empire o'er the public mind
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined.

Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days
The Muse may celebrate with perfect praise
Whose generous children narrowed not their hearts
With Commerce, given alone to Arms and Arts.
Our boys save those whom public schools compel
To "Long and Short" before they're taught to spell
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote
"A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got."
Babe of a city birth! from sixpence take
The third, how much will the remainder make?
"A groat. Ah, bravo! Dick hath done the sum!
He'll swell my fifty thousand to a Plum."

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes
'Tis clear, are fit for anything but rhymes
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right
Who hides all verses from his children's sight
For Poets says this Sage, and many more
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore
And Delphi now, however rich of old
Discovers little silver, and less gold
Because Parnassus, though a Mount divine
Is poor as Irus, or an Irish mine.

Two objects always should the Poet move
Or one or both, to please or to improve.
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design
For our remembrance your didactic line
Redundance places Memory on the rack
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back.

Fiction does best when taught to look like Truth
And fairy fables bubble none but youth
Expect no credit for too wondrous tales
Since Jonas only springs alive from Whales!

Young men with aught but Elegance dispense
Maturer years require a little Sense.
To end at once that Bard for all is fit
Who mingles well instruction with his wit
For him Reviews shall smile for him overflow
The patronage of Paternoster-row
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass
Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed.

But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone
And wayward voices, at their owner's call
With all his best endeavours, only squall
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark
And double-barrels damn them! miss their mark.

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view
We must not quarrel for a blot or two
But pardon equally to books or men
The slips of Human Nature, and the Pen.
Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend
Despises all advice too much to mend
But ever twangs the same discordant string
Give him no quarter, howsoever he sing.
Let Havard's fate overtake him, who, for once
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce
At first none deemed it his but when his name
Announced the fact what then? it lost its fame.
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze
In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose.

As Pictures, so shall Poems be some stand
The critic eye, and please when near at hand
But others at a distance strike the sight
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view
But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new.

Parnassian pilgrims! ye whom chance, or choice
Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise
Few reach the Summit which before you lies.
Our Church and State, our Courts and Camps, concede
Reward to very moderate heads indeed!
In these plain common sense will travel far
All are not Erskines who mislead the Bar
But Poesy between the best and worst
No medium knows you must be last or first
For middling Poets' miserable volumes
Are damned alike by Gods, and Men, and Columns.
Again, my Jeffrey as that sound inspires
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires!

Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel
Or mild Eclectics, when some, worse than Turks
Would rob poor Faith to decorate "Good Works."
Such are the genial feelings them canst claim
My Falcon flies not at ignoble game.
Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase!
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace.
Arise, my Jeffrey! or my inkless pen
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns
"Alas! I cannot strike at wretched kernes."
Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign
A Muse and heart by choice so wholly thine?
Dear d--d contemner of my schoolboy songs
Hast thou no vengeance for my Manhood's wrongs?
If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed?
What! not a word! and am I then so low?
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe?
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent?
No wit for Nobles, Dunces by descent?
No jest on "minors," quibbles on a name
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame?
Is it for this on Ilion I have stood
And thought of Homer less than Holyrood?
On shore of Euxine or Ægean sea
My hate, untravelled, fondly turned to thee.
Ah! let me cease! in vain my bosom burns
From Corydon unkind Alexis turns
Thy rhymes are vain thy Jeffrey then forego
Nor woo that anger which he will not show.
What then? Edina starves some lanker son
To write an article thou canst not shun
Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found
As bold in Billingsgate, though less renowned.

As if at table some discordant dish
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish
As oil in lieu of butter men decry
And poppies please not in a modern pie
If all such mixtures then be half a crime
We must have Excellence to relish rhyme.
Mere roast and boiled no Epicure invites
Thus Poetry disgusts, or else delights.

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun
Will he who swims not to the river run?
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks
Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box.
Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil
None reach expertness without years of toil
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please.
Why not? shall I, thus qualified to sit
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit?
Shall I, whose fathers with the "Quorum" sate
And lived in freedom on a fair estate
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs
To 'all' their income, and to 'twice' its tax
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault
Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic Salt?

Thus think "the Mob of Gentlemen" but you
Besides all this, must have some Genius too.
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule
And print not piping hot from Southey's school
Who ere another Thalaba appears
I trust, will spare us for at least nine years.
And hark'ye, Southey!pray but don't be vexed
Burn all your last three works and half the next.
But why this vain advice? once published, books
Can never be recalled from pastry-cooks!
Though "Madoc," with "Pucelle," instead of Punk
May travel back to Quito on a trunk!

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere
Led all wild beasts but Women by the ear
And had he fiddled at the present hour
We'd seen the Lions waltzing in the Tower
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren.
Verse too was Justice, and the Bards of Greece
Did more than constables to keep the peace
Abolished cuckoldom with much applause
Called county meetings, and enforced the laws
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes
And served the Church without demanding tithes

And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East
Each Poet was a Prophet and a Priest
Whose old-established Board of Joint Controls
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls.
Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince
And Fighting's been in fashion ever since
And old Tyrtæus, when the Spartans warred
A limping leader, but a lofty bard
Though walled Ithome had resisted long
Reduced the fortress by the force of song.

When Oracles prevailed, in times of old
In song alone Apollo's will was told.
Then if your verse is what all verse should be
And Gods were not ashamed on't, why should we?

The Muse, like mortal females, may be wooed
In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright
Mild as the same upon the second night
Wild as the wife of Alderman or Peer
Now for His Grace, and now a grenadier!
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone
Ice in a crowd and Lava when alone.

If Verse be studied with some show of Art.
Kind Nature always will perform her part
Though without Genius, and a native vein
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain
Yet Art and Nature joined will win the prize
Unless they act like us and our allies.

The youth who trains to ride, or run a race
Must bear privations with unruffled face
Be called to labour when he thinks to dine
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine.
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight
Have followed Music through her farthest flight
But rhymers tell you neither more nor less
"I've got a pretty poem for the Press"
And that's enough then write and print so fast
If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last?
They storm the Types, they publish, one and all
They leap the counter, and they leave the stall.
Provincial Maidens, men of high command
Yea! Baronets have inked the bloody hand!
Cash cannot quell them Pollio played this prank
Then Phoebus first found credit in a Bank!
Not all the living only, but the dead
Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' Head
Damned all their days, they posthumously thrive
Dug up from dust, though buried when alive!
Reviews record this epidemic crime
Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme.
Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen
In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine.
There lurk his earlier lays but soon, hot pressed
Behold a Quarto! Tarts must tell the rest.
Then leave, ye wise, the Lyre's precarious chords
To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords
Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale!
Hark to those notes, narcotically soft!
The Cobbler-Laureats sing to Capel Lofft!
Till, lo! that modern Midas, as he hears
Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears!
There lives one Druid, who prepares in time
'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme
Racks his dull Memory, and his duller Muse
To publish faults which Friendship should excuse.
If Friendship's nothing, Self-regard might teach
More polished usage of his parts of speech.
But what is shame, or what is aught to him?
He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim.
Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate
Some folly crossed, some jest, or some debate
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon
The gathered gall is voided in Lampoon.
Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown
Perhaps your Poem may have pleased the Town
If so, alas! 'tis nature in the man
May Heaven forgive you, for he never can!
Then be it so and may his withering Bays
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise
While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink
But springing upwards from the sluggish mould
Be what they never were before be sold!
Should some rich Bard but such a monster now
In modern Physics, we can scarce allow
Should some pretending scribbler of the Court
Some rhyming Peer there's plenty of the sort
All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn
Ah! too regardless of his Chaplain's yawn!
Condemn the unlucky Curate to recite
Their last dramatic work by candle-light
How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf
Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief!
Yet, since 'tis promised at the Rector's death
He'll risk no living for a little breath.
Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line
The Lord forgive him! "Bravo! Grand! Divine!"
Hoarse with those praises which, by Flattery fed
Dependence barters for her bitter bread
He strides and stamps along with creaking boot
Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot
Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye
As when the dying vicar will not die!
Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart
But all Dissemblers overact their part.

Ye, who aspire to "build the lofty rhyme,"
Believe not all who laud your false "sublime"
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say
"Expunge that stanza, lop that line away,"
And, after fruitless efforts, you return
Without amendment, and he answers, "Burn!"
That instant throw your paper in the fire
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire
But if true Bard! you scorn to condescend
And will not alter what you can't defend
If you will breed this Bastard of your Brains
We'll have no wordscI've only lost my pains.
Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought
As critics kindly do, and authors ought
If your cool friend annoy you now and then
And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen
No matter, throw your ornaments aside
Better let him than all the world deride.
Give light to passages too much in shade
Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made
Your friend's a "Johnson," not to leave one word
However trifling, which may seem absurd
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills
And furnish food for critics, or their quills.

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune
Or the sad influence of the angry Moon
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues
As yawning waiters fly Fitzscribble's lungs
Yet on he mouths ten minutes tedious each
As Prelate's homily, or placeman's speech
Long as the last years of a lingering lease
When Riot pauses until Rents increase.
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways
If by some chance he walks into a well
And shouts for succour with stentorian yell
"A rope! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace!"
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace
For there his carcass he might freely fling
From frenzy, or the humour of the thing.
Though this has happened to more Bards than one
I'll tell you Budgell's story, and have done.

Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good
Unless his case be much misunderstood
When teased with creditors' continual claims
"To die like Cato," leapt into the Thames!
And therefore be it lawful through the town
For any Bard to poison, hang, or drown.
Who saves the intended Suicide receives
Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose
The Glory of that death they freely choose.

Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse
Prick not the Poet's conscience as a curse
Dosed with vile drams on Sunday he was found
Or got a child on consecrated ground!
And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage
Feared like a bear just bursting from his cage.
If free, all fly his versifying fit
Fatal at once to Simpleton or Wit
But 'him', unhappy! whom he seizes,'him'
He flays with Recitation limb by limb
Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach
And gorges like a Lawyer or a Leech.

Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys
Who lead'st along, in airy dance
Thy votive train of girls and boys
At length, in spells no longer bound
I break the fetters of my youth
No more I tread thy mystic round
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul
Where every nymph a goddess seems
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll
While Fancy holds her boundless reign
And all assume a varied hue
When Virgins seem no longer vain
And even Woman's smiles are true.

And must we own thee, but a name
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame
A Pylades in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air
To mingling bands of fairy elves
Confess that woman's false as fair
And friends have feeling for themselves?

With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er
No more thy precepts I obey
No more on fancied pinions soar
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye
And think that eye to truth was dear
To trust a passing wanton's sigh
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!

Romance! disgusted with deceit
Far from thy motley court I fly
Where Affectation holds her seat
And sickly Sensibility
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine
Who turns aside from real woe
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.

Now join with sable Sympathy
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds
And call thy sylvan female choir
To mourn a Swain for ever gone
Who once could glow with equal fire
But bends not now before thy throne.

Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears
With fancied flames and frenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.

Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh
E'en now the gulf appears in view
Where unlamented you must lie
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen
Convulsed by gales you cannot weather
Where you, and eke your gentle queen
Alas! must perish altogether.

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire
A million scarce would quench desire
Still would I steep my lips in bliss
And dwell an age on every kiss
Nor then my soul should sated be
Still would I kiss and cling to thee
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever
Still would we kiss and kiss for ever
E'en though the numbers did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed
To part would be a vain endeavor
Could I desist? ah! never never.

Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire
With bright, but mild affection shine
Though they might kindle less desire
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam
We must admire, but still despair
That fatal glance forbids esteem.

When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth
So much perfection in thee shone
She fear'd that, too divine for earth
The skies might claim thee for their own.

Therefore, to guard her dearest work
Lest angels might dispute the prize
She bade a secret lightning lurk
Within those once celestial eyes.

These might the boldest Sylph appall
When gleaming with meridian blaze
Thy beauty must enrapture all
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

'Tis said that Berenice's hair
In stars adorns the vault of heaven
But they would ne'er permit thee there
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear
E'en suns, which systems now control
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

When we two parted
In silence and tears
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years
Pale grew thy cheek and cold
Colder thy kiss
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken
And light is thy fame
I hear thy name spoken
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me
A knell to mine ear
A shudder comes o’er me
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts
The habitations of all things which dwell
Were burnt for beacons cities were consumed
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky
The pall of a past world and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground
And flap their useless wings the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more
Did glut himself again a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom no love was left
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws himself sought out no food
But with a piteous and perpetual moan
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees but two
Of an enormous city did survive
And they were enemies they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage they raked up
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died
Even of their mutual hideousness they died
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void
The populous and the powerful was a lump
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea
And their masts fell down piecemeal as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead the tides were in their grave
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air
And the clouds perish'd Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.

The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain
And slavery half forgets her feudal chain
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord —
The long self-exiled chieftain is restored
There be bright faces in the busy hall
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall
Far chequering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze
And gay retainers gather round the hearth
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

The chief of Lara is return'd again
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main?
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know
Lord of himself — that heritage of woe
That fearful empire which the human breast
But holds to rob the heart within of rest!
With none to check, and few to point in time
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime
Then, when he most required commandment, then
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men.
It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace
His youth through all the mazes of its race
Short was the course his restlessness had run
But long enough to leave him half undone.

And Lara left in youth his fatherland
But from the hour he waved his parting hand
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew
Cold in the many, anxious in the few.
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name
His portrait darkens in its fading frame
Another chief consoled his destined bride
The young forgot him, and the old had died
"Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatient heir
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place
But one is absent from the mouldering file
That now were welcome to that Gothic pile.

He comes at last in sudden loneliness
And whence they know not, why they need not guess
They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er
Not that he came, but came not long before
No train is his beyond a single page
Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.
Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away
To those that wander as to those that stay
But lack of tidings from another clime
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem
The present dubious, or the past a dream.

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by time
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot
Might be untaught him by his varied lot
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame.
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse.

And they indeed were changed — 'tis quickly seen
Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last
And spake of passions, but of passion past
The pride, but not the fire, of early days
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise
A high demeanour, and a glance that took
Their thoughts from others by a single look
And that sarcastic levity of tongue
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung
That darts in seeming playfulness around
And makes those feel that will not own the wound
All these seem'd his, and something more beneath
Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe.
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim
That some can conquer, and that all would claim
Within his breast appear'd no more to strive
Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive
And some deep feeling it were vain to trace
At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face.

Not much he loved long question of the past
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone
And — as himself would have it seem — unknown
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan
Nor glean experience from his fellow-man
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know
If still more prying such inquiry grew
His brow fell darker, and his words more few.

Not unrejoiced to see him once again
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command
He mingled with the magnates of his land
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away
But still he only saw, and did not share
The common pleasure or the general care
He did not follow what they all pursued
With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain
Around him some mysterious circle thrown
Repell'd approach, and showed him still alone
Upon his eye sate something of reproof
That kept at least frivolity aloof
And things more timid that beheld him near
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd
They deem'd him better than his air express'd.

'Twas strange — in youth all action and all life
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below
And found his recompence in joy or woe
No tame, trite medium for his feelings sought
In that intenseness an escape from thought
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed
On that the feebler elements hath raised
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme
How woke he from the wildness of that dream?
Alas! he told not — but he did awake
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break.

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day
From all communion he would start away
And then, his rarely call'd attendants said
Through night's long hours would sound his hurried tread
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd
In rude but antique portraiture around.
They heard, but whisper'd — "that must not be known
The sound of words less earthly than his own.
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen
They scarce knew what, but more than should have been.
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head
Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead
That still beside his open'd volume lay
As if to startle all save him away?
Why slept he not when others were at rest?
Why heard no music, and received no guest?
All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong?
Some knew perchance — but 'twere a tale too long
And such besides were too discreetly wise
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise
But if they would — they could" — around the board
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord.

It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream
The stars are studding, each with imaged beam
So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray
And yet they glide like happiness away
Reflecting far and fairy-like from high
The immortal lights that live along the sky
Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree
And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee
Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove
And Innocence would offer to her love.
These deck the shore the waves their channel make
In windings bright and mazy like the snake.
All was so still, so soft in earth and air
You scarce would start to meet a spirit there
Secure that nought of evil could delight
To walk in such a scene, on such a night!
It was a moment only for the good
So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood
But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate
Such scene his soul no more could contemplate.
Such scene reminded him of other days
Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze
Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now
No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow
Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this
A night of beauty mock'd such breast as his.

He turn'd within his solitary hall
And his high shadow shot along the wall
There were the painted forms of other times
'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes
Save vague tradition and the gloomy vaults
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults
And half a column of the pompous page
That speeds the specious tale from age to age
When history's pen its praise or blame supplies
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies.
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer
Reflected in fantastic figures grew
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom
And the wide waving of his shaken plume
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave
His aspect all that terror gives the grave.

'Twas midnight — all was slumber the lone light
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night.
Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall
A sound — voice — a shriek — a fearful call!
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear?
They heard and rose, and tremulously brave
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands.

Cold as the marble where his length was laid
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd
Was Lara stretch'd his half-drawn sabre near
Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now
And still defiance knit his gather'd brow
Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay
Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died
Some imprecation of despairing pride
His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook
Even in its trance the gladiator's look
That oft awake his aspect could disclose
And now was fix'd in horrible repose.
They raise him — bear him hush! he breathes, he speaks!
The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb
Recalls its function, but his words are strung
In terms that seem not of his native tongue
Distinct but strange, enough they understand
To deem them accents of another land
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear
That hears him not — alas! that cannot hear!

His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd
To know the import of the words they heard
And by the changes of his cheek and brow
They were not such as Lara should avow
Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside
And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem
To soothe away the horrors of his dream
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow
A breast that needed not ideal woe.

Whate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld
If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd
Rests at his heart the custom'd morning came
And breathed new vigour in his shaking frame
And solace sought he none from priest nor leech
And soon the same in movement and in speech
As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours
Than these were wont and if the coming night
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight
He to his marvelling vassals shew'd it not
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot.
In trembling pairs alone they dared not crawl
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall
The waving banner, and the clapping door
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals
As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls.

Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom
Came not again, or Lara could assume
A seeming of forgetfulness that made
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid
Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored?
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord
Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease.
Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke
Those strange wild accents his the cry that broke
Their slumber? his the oppress'd o'er-labour'd heart
That ceased to beat, the look that made them start?
Could he who thus had suffer'd, so forget
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet?
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd
In that corroding secresy which gnaws
The heart to shew the effect, but not the cause?
Not so in him his breast had buried both
Nor common gazers could discern the growth
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told
They choke the feeble words that would unfold.

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd
Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot
His silence form'd a theme for others' prate
They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know his fate.
What had he been? what was he, thus unknown
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known?
A hater of his kind? yet some would say
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near
Waned in its mirth and wither'd to a sneer
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye
Yet there was softness too in his regard
At times, a heart as not by nature hard
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride
And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem
In self-inflicted penance of a breast
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest
In vigilance of grief that would compel
The soul to hate for having loved too well.

There was in him a vital scorn of all
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall
He stood a stranger in this breathing world
An erring spirit from another hurled
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet
His mind would half exult and half regret
With more capacity for love than earth
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth
With thought of years in phantom chase misspent
And wasted powers for better purpose lent
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath
In hurried desolation o'er his path
And left the better feelings all at strife
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame
He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame
And charged all faults upon the fleshly form
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm
'Till he at last confounded good and ill
And half mistook for fate the acts of will
Too high for common selfishness, he could
At times resign his own for others' good
But not in pity, not because he ought
But in some strange perversity of thought
That sway'd him onward with a secret pride
To do what few or none would do beside
And this same impulse would, in tempting time
Mislead his spirit equally to crime
So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath
The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe
And long'd by good or ill to separate
Himself from all who shared his mortal state
His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne
Far from the world, in regions of her own
Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below
His blood in temperate seeming now would flow
Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd
But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd
'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd
And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start
His madness was not of the head, but heart
And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view.

With all that chilling mystery of mien
And seeming gladness to remain unseen
He had if 'twere not nature's boon an art
Of fixing memory on another's heart
It was not love, perchance — nor hate — nor aught
That words can image to express the thought
But they who saw him did not see in vain
And once beheld, would ask of him again
And those to whom he spake remember'd well
And on the words, however light, would dwell.
None knew nor how, nor why, but he entwined
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind
There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate
If greeted once however brief the date
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew
Still there within the inmost thought he grew.
You could not penetrate his soul, but found
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound.
His presence haunted still and from the breast
He forced an all-unwilling interest
Vain was the struggle in that mental net
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget!

There is a festival, where knights and dames
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims
Appear — a high-born and a welcomed guest
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest.
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands
That mingle there in well according bands
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth
And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth
And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth!

And Lara gazed on these sedately glad
His brow belied him if his soul was sad
And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair
Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there
He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh
With folded arms and long attentive eye
Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his
Ill brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this
At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown
But seems as searching his, and his alone
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien
Who still till now had gazed on him unseen
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze
Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze
On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew
As if distrusting that the stranger threw
Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern
Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn.

"'Tis he!" the stranger cried, and those that heard
Re-echo'd fast and far the whisper'd word.
"'Tis he!" — "'Tis who?" they question far and near
Till louder accents rang on Lara's ear
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook
The general marvel, or that single look
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes
Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised
Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed
And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer
"'Tis he! — how came he thence? — what doth he here?"

It were too much for Lara to pass by
Such question, so repeated fierce and high
With look collected, but with accent cold
More mildly firm than petulantly bold
He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone
"My name is Lara! — when thine own is known
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite
The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight.
'Tis Lara! — further wouldst thou mark or ask?
I shun no question, and I wear no mask."
"Thou shunn'st no question! Ponder — is there none
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun?
And deem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze again!
At least thy memory was not given in vain.
Oh! never canst thou cancel half her debt
Eternity forbids thee to forget."
With slow and searching glance upon his face
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace
They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look
He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay.
"A word! — I charge thee stay, and answer here
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord
If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word
But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown.
Art thou not he? whose deeds — "

"Whate'er I be
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee
I list no further those with whom they weigh
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell
Which thus begins courteously and well.
Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express'd."
And here their wondering host hath interposed
"Whate'er there be between you undisclosed
This is no time nor fitting place to mar
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war.
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast ought to show
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown
Though, like Count Lara, now return'd alone
From other lands, almost a stranger grown
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth
I augur right of courage and of worth
He will not that untainted line belie
Nor aught that knighthood may accord deny."
"To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied
"And here our several worth and truth be tried
I gage my life, my falchion to attest
My words, so may I mingle with the blest!"

What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk
His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk
The words of many, and the eyes of all
That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall
But his were silent, his appear'd to stray
In far forgetfulness away — away —
Alas! that heedlessness of all around
Bespoke remembrance only too profound.

"To-morrow! — ay, to-morrow!" — further word
Than those repeated none from Lara heard
Upon his brow no outward passion spoke
From his large eye no flashing anger broke
Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone
Which shew'd resolve, determined, though unknown.
He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd
And passing Ezzelin he left the crowd
And as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown
With which that chieftain's brow would bear him down
It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide
But that of one in his own heart secure
Of all that he would do, or could endure.
Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good?
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood?
Alas! too like in confidence are each
For man to trust to mortal look or speech
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn.

And Lara call'd his page, and went his way
Well could that stripling word or sign obey
His only follower from those climes afar
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung
In duty patient, and sedate though young
Silent as him he served, his fate appears
Above his station, and beyond his years.
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land
In such from him he rarely heard command
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home
Those accents, as his native mountains dear
Awake their absent echoes in his ear
Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all
For him earth now disclosed no other guide
What marvel then he rarely left his side?

Light was his form, and darkly delicate
That brow whereon his native sun had sate
But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow
But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care
That for a burning moment fever'd there
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there
Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share
And pleased not him the sports that please his age
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone
Brief were his answers, and his questions none
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook
He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart
To know no brotherhood and take from earth
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth.

If aught he loved, 'twas Lara but was shown
His faith in reverence and in deeds alone
In mute attention and his care, which guess'd
Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd.
Still there was haughtiness in all he did
A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid
His zeal, though more than that of servile hands
In act alone obeys, his air commands
As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire
That thus he served, but surely not for hire.
Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord
To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword
To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more
On tomes of other times and tongues to pore
But ne'er to mingle with the menial train
To whom he shew'd not deference nor disdain
But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew
No sympathy with that familiar crew
His soul, whate'er his station or his stem
Could bow to Lara, not descend to them.
Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days
Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays
So femininely white it might bespeak
Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek
But for his garb, and something in his gaze
More wild and high than woman's eye betrays
A latent fierceness that far more became
His fiery climate than his tender frame
True, in his words it broke not from his breast
But from his aspect might be more than guess'd.
Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore
Another ere he left his mountain shore
For sometimes he would hear, however nigh
That name repeated loud without reply
As unfamiliar, or, if roused again
Start to the sound, as but remember'd then
Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake.

He had look'd down upon the festive hall
And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all
And when the crowd around and near him told
Their wonder at the calmness of the bold
Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore
Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore
The colour of young Kaled went and came
The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame
And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw
The sickening iciness of that cold dew
That rises as the busy bosom sinks
With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks.
Yes — there be things which we must dream and dare
And execute ere thought be half aware
Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow
To seal his lip, but agonise his brow.
He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast
That sidelong smile upon on the knight he pass'd
When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell
As if on something recognised right well
His memory read in such a meaning more
Than Lara's aspect unto others wore.
Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone
And all within that hall seem'd left alone
Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien
All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene
That when his long dark shadow through the porch
No more relieves the glare of yon high torch
Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem
To bound as doubting from too black a dream
Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth
Because the worst is ever nearest truth.
And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there
With thoughtful visage and imperious air
But long remain'd not ere an hour expired
He waved his hand to Otho, and retired.

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest
The courteous host, and all-approving guest
Again to that accustom'd couch must creep
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep
And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life
There lie love's feverish hope. and cunning's guile
Hate's working brain and lull'd ambition's wile
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave
And quench'd existence crouches in a grave.
What better name may slumber's bed become?
Night's sepulchre, the universal home
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine
Alike in naked helplessness recline
Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.

Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains curl'd
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world.
Man has another day to swell the past
And lead him near to little, but his last
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
Immortal man! behold her glories shine
And cry, exulting inly, "They are thine!"
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see
A morrow comes when they are not for thee
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil
And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil.

'Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call
'Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim
The life or death of Lara's future fame
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told.
His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given
To meet it in the eye of man and Heaven.
Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged
Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged.

The hour is past, and Lara too is there
With self-confiding, coldly patient air
Why comes not Ezzelin? The hour is past
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow's o'ercast
"I know my friend! his faith I cannot fear
If yet he be on earth, expect him here
The roof that held him in the valley stands
Between my own and noble Lara's lands
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd
But that some previous proof forbade his stay
And urged him to prepare against to-day
The word I pledge for his I pledge again
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain."

He ceased — and Lara answer'd, "I am here
To lend at thy demand a listening ear
To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue
Whose words already might my heart have wrung
But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad
Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad.
I know him not — but me it seems he knew
In lands where — but I must not trifle too
Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge
Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge."

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew.
"The last alternative befits me best
And thus I answer for mine absent guest."

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom
However near his own or other's tomb
With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke
Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke
With eye, though calm, determined not to spare
Did Lara too his willing weapon bare.
In vain the circling chieftains round them closed
For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed
And from his lip those words of insult fell
His sword is good who can maintain them well.

Short was the conflict furious, blindly rash
Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash
He bled, and fell but not with deadly wound
Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground.
"Demand thy life!" He answer'd not and then
From that red floor he ne'er had risen again
For Lara's brow upon the moment grew
Almost to blackness in its demon hue
And fiercer shook his angry falchion now
Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow
Then all was stern collectedness and art
Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart
So little sparing to the foe he fell'd
That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld
He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those
Who thus for mercy dared to interpose
But to a moment's thought that purpose bent
Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent
As if he loathed the ineffectual strife
That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life
As if to search how far the wound he gave
Had sent its victim onward to his grave.

They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech
The others met within a neighbouring hall
And he, incensed and heedless of them all
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray
In haughty silence slowly strode away
He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took
Nor cast on Otho's tower a single look.

But where was he? that meteor of a night
Who menaced but to disappear with light.
Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went
To leave no other trace of his intent.
He left the dome of Otho long ere morn
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn
He could not miss it near his dwelling lay
But there he was not, and with coming day
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought
Except the absence of the chief it sought.
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distress'd
Their search extends along, around the path
In dread to met the marks of prowlers' wrath
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass
Which still retains a mark where murder was
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale
The bitter print of each convulsive nail
When agonised hands that cease to guard
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward.
Some such had been, if here a life was reft
But these were not and doubting hope is left
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame
Then sudden silent when his form appear'd
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd
Again its wonted wondering to renew
And dye conjecture with a darker hue.

Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd
But not his pride and hate no more conceal'd
He was a man of power, and Lara's foe
The friend of all who sought to work him woe
And from his country's justice now demands
Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands.
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear
His presence? who had made him disappear
If not the man on whom his menaced charge
Had sate too deeply were he left at large?
The general rumour ignorantly loud
The mystery dearest to the curious crowd
The seeming friendlessness of him who strove
To win no confidence, and wake no love
The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd
The skill with which he wielded his keen blade
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art?
Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart?
For it was not the blind capricious rage
A word can kindle and a word assuage
But the deep working of a soul unmix'd
With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd
Such as long power and overgorged success
Concentrates into all that's merciless
These, link'd with that desire which ever sways
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise
'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form
And he must answer for the absent head
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead.

Within that land was many a malcontent
Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent
That soil full many a wringing despot saw
Who work'd his wantonness in form of law
Long war without and frequent broil within
Had made a path for blood and giant sin
That waited but a signal to begin
New havoc, such as civil discord blends
Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends
Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord
In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd.
Thus Lara had inherited his lands
And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands
But that long absence from his native clime
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime
And now, diverted by his milder sway
All dread by slow degrees had worn away
The menials felt their usual awe alone
But more for him than them that fear was grown
They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first
Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst
And each long restless night, and silent mood
Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude
And though his lonely habits threw of late
Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate
For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew.
Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high
The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye
Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof.
And they who watch'd might mark that, day by day
Some new retainers gather'd to his sway
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost
He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host
Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head
Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains
With these, the people, than his fellow thanes.
If this were policy, so far 'twas sound
The million judged but of him as they found
From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven
They but required a shelter, and 'twas given.
By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot
And scarce the serf could murmur o'er his lot
With him old avarice found its hoard secure
With him contempt forbore to mock the poor
Youth present cheer and promised recompense
Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence
To hate he offer'd, with the coming change
The deep reversion of delay'd revenge
To love, long baffled by the unequal match
The well-won charms success was sure to snatch.
All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim
That slavery nothing which was still a name.
The moment came, the hour when Otho thought
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought
His summons found the destined criminal
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall
Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven
Defying earth, and confident of heaven.
That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves!
Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right
Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will
A word's enough to raise mankind to kill
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread
That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed!

Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth
The serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both
They waited but a leader, and they found
One to their cause inseparably bound
By circumstance compell'd to plunge again
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men.
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those
Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun
Inquiry into deeds at distance done
By mingling with his own the cause of all
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall.
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept
The storm that once had spent itself and slept
Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been
And is again he only changed the scene.
Light care had he for life, and less for fame
But not less fitted for the desperate game
He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate
And mock'd at ruin, so they shared his fate.
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd?
He raised the humble but to bend the proud.
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair
But man and destiny beset him there
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay
And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey.
Stern, unambitious, silent he had been
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene
But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood
A leader not unequal to the feud
In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke
And from his eye the gladiator broke.

What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life?
The varying fortune of each separate field
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?
The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall?
In this the struggle was the same with all
Save that distemper'd passions lent their force
In bitterness that banish'd all remorse.
None sued, for Mercy know her cry was vain
The captive died upon the battle-slain
In either cause, one rage alone possess'd
The empire of the alternate victor's breast
And they that smote for freedom or for sway
Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay.
It was too late to check the wasting brand
And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land
The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread
And Carnage smiled upon her daily bread.

Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung
The first success to Lara's numbers clung
But that vain victory hath ruin'd all
They form no longer to their leader's call
In blind confusion on the foe they press
And think to snatch is to secure success.
The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate
Lure on the broken brigands to their fate
In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do
To check the headlong fury of that crew
In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame
The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame.
The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood
And shewn their rashness to that erring brood
The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade
The daily harass, and the fight delay'd
The long privation of the hoped supply
The tentless rest beneath the humid sky
The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art
And palls the patience of his baffled heart
Of these they had not deem'd the battle-day
They could encounter as a veteran may
But more preferr'd the fury of the strife
And present death, to hourly suffering life
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away
His numbers melting fast from their array
Intemperate triumph fades to discontent
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent
But few remain to aid his voice and hand
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd.
One hope survives, the frontier is not far
And thence they may escape from native war
And bear within them to the neighbouring state
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate
Hard is the task their fatherland to quit
But harder still to perish or submit.

It is resolved they march consenting Night
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight
Already they perceive its tranquil beam
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream
Already they descry Is yon the bank?
Away! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank.
Return or fly! What glitters in the rear?
'Tis Otho's banner the pursuer's spear!
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height?
Alas! they blaze too widely for the flight
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil
Less blood, perchance, hath bought a richer spoil!

A moment's pause 'tis but to breathe their band
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand?
It matters little if they charge the foes
Who by their border-stream their march oppose
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line
However link'd to baffle such design.
"The charge be ours! to wait for their assault
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt."
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath
How many shall but hear the voice of death!

His blade is bared — in him there is an air
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair
A something of indifference more than then
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men.
He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near
And still too faithful to betray one fear
Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight threw
Along his aspect an unwonted hue
Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd
The truth, and not the terror of his breast.
This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his
It trembled not in such an hour as this
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart
His eye alone proclaim'd"We will not part!
Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee!"

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven
Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel
Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose
Despair to daring, and a front to foes
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream
Which runs all redly till the morning beam.

Commanding, aiding, animating all
Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel.
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain
But those that waver turn to smite again
While yet they find the firmest of the foe
Recoil before their leader's look and blow
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high
And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest?
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast!
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side
And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride.
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung!
But yet the sword instinctively retains
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins
These Kaled snatches dizzy with the blow
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage
Meantime his followers charge and charge again
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain!

Day glimmers on the dying and the dead
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head
The war-horse masterless is on the earth
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth
And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd
The heel that urged him, and the hand that rein'd
And some too near that rolling torrent lie
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave
With feeble and convulsive effort swept
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept
The faint remains of life such struggles waste
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste
They feel its freshness, and almost partake
Why pause? — No further thirst have they to slake
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not
It was an agony — but now forgot!

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene
Where but for him that strife had never been
A breathing but devoted warrior lay
'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away.
His follower once, and now his only guide
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side
And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush
With each convulsion in a blacker gush
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow
He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain
And merely adds another throb to pain.
He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage
And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page
Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees
Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees
Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim
Held all the light that shone on earth for him.

The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield
They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain
And he regards them with a calm disdain
That rose to reconcile him with his fate
And that escape to death from living hate
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed
And questions of his state he answers not
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot
And turns to Kaled — each remaining word
They understood not, if distinctly heard
His dying tones are in that other tongue
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung.
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round
They seem'd even then — that twain unto the last
To half forget the present in the past
To share between themselves some separate fate
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate.

Their words though faint were many — from the tone
Their import those who heard could judge alone
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's death
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke
The accents his scarce moving pale lips spoke
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near
But from his visage little could we guess
So unrepentant, dark, and passionless
Save that when struggling nearer to his last
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast
And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East
Whether as then the breaking sun from high
Roll'd back the clouds the morrow caught his eye
Or that 'twas chance, or some remember'd scene
That raised his arm to point where such had been
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away
As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day
And shrunk his glance before that morning light
To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night.
Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss
For when one near display'd the absolving cross
And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead
Of which his parting soul might own the need
He look'd upon it with an eye profane
And smiled — Heaven pardon! if 'twere with disdain
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew
From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift
As if such but disturb'd the expiring man
Nor seem'd to know his life but then began
The life immortal infinite, secure
To all for whom that cross hath made it sure!

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew
And dull the film along his dim eye grew
His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain
For that faint throb which answers not again.
"It beats!" — Away, thou dreamer! he is gone
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon.

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away
The haughty spirit of that humble clay
And those around have roused him from his trance
But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance
And when in raising him from where he bore
Within his arms the form that felt no more
He saw the head his breast would still sustain
Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain
He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear
The glossy tendrils of his raven hair
But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell
Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well.
Than that he lov'd! Oh! never yet beneath
The breast of man such trusty love may breathe!
That trying moment hath at once reveal'd
The secret long and yet but half conceal'd
In baring to revive that lifeless breast
Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd
And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame?

And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep
But where he died his grave was dug as deep
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound
Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the mound
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief.
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last
She told nor whence nor why she left behind
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind.
Why did she love him? Curious fool! be still
Is human love the growth of human will?
To her he might be gentleness the stern
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern
And when they love, your smilers guess not how
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow.
They were not common links that form'd the chain
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told.

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest
They found the scattered dints of many a scar
Which were not planted there in recent war
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife
But all unknown his glory or his guilt
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt.
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past
Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last.

Upon that night a peasant's is the tale
A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood
And hew the bough that bought his children's food
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke
From out the wood — before him was a cloak
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddlebow
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow.
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time
And some foreboding that it might be crime
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore
Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to watch
And still another hurried glance would snatch
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd
As if even yet too much its surface show'd
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strewn
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there
And slung them with a more than common care.
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen
Himself might safely mark what this might mean.
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk
It rose again, but indistinct to view
And left the waters of a purple hue
Then deeply disappear'd the horseman gazed
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed.
His face was mask'd the features of the dead
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore
Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn
Upon the night that led to such a morn.
If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul!
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll
And charity upon the hope would dwell
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell.

And Kaled, Lara, Ezzelin, are gone
Alike without their monumental stone!
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean
From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been.
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud
But furious would you tear her from the spot
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire
But left to waste her weary moments there
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints
And woos to listen to her fond complaints
And she would sit beneath the very tree
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee
And in that posture where she saw him fall
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there
And fold and press it gently to the ground
As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound.
Herself would question, and for him reply
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly
From some imagined spectre in pursuit
Then seat her down upon some linden's root
And hide her visage with her meagre hand
Or trace strange characters along the sand. —
This could not last, she lies by him she loved
Her tale untold, her truth too dearly proved.

I SAW two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As ’twere the cape of a long ridge of such
Save that there was no sea to lave its base
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men
Scatter’d at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs the hill
Was crown’d with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, i circular array, so fix’d
Not by the sport of nature, but of man
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself but the boy gazed on her
And both were young, and one was beautiful
And both were young yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon’s verge
The maid was on the eve of womanhood
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth
And that was shining on him he had look’d
Upon it till it could not pass away
He had no breath, no being, but in hers
She was his voice he did not speak to her
But trembled on her words she was his sight
For his eye follow’d hers, and saw with hers
Which colour’d all his objects—he had ceased
To live within himself she was his life
The ocean to the river of his thoughts
Which terminated all upon a tone
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow
And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share
Her sighs were not for him to her he was
Even as a brother—but no more ’twas much
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestow’d on him
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honored 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 o’er 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 ’twere
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.

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 him not
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 self-same 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 frenzy 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 fantasies
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
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 stars
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.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen
With the wild flock that never needs a fold
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean
This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men
To hear, to see, to feel and to possess
And roam alone, the world's tired denizen
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued
This is to be alone this, this is solitude!